BlueSilkenSky
Rock n' Roll Doggie VIP PASS
Last time I'll see y'all on this computer, for the school is taking it away. So have yourself a merry little chapter, now...
It occurs a few days after the Oslo show, when Adam mounts the stage of the Swedish stadium to soundcheck his bass. I’m here as well, having virtually nothing else to do, and ask when Adam’s done if I can take bass lessons from him.
Adam scratches his head. “I’d be happy to do that favor, Marieke, but I don’t really know how to play myself.” Laughing, he explains that he is a self-taught musician, and wouldn’t know the first things about teaching someone else.
I shrug my shoulders. “Where’s your bass technician?”
Adam’s eyes light up. “Brilliant, Marieke. I’ll go find him.” He returns hauling another man by the elbow. “Marieke, this is Stuart. Stuart, meet Marieke.”
The two of us eye each other, shake hands, and exchange pleasantries. Stuart says, “So you want to play the bass guitar? We’ll see how this works out. Come on up here with me.” We go backstage with one final warning tossed to Adam- “Get back to work!”
Stuart helps me select one guitar to my liking. I hoist the strap over my head and gently touch the strings, feeling scared for a second. What if I break it by accident?
A pick is thrown at me, and Stuart says, “We’ll start you with basic scales. Have you ever taken music lessons?”
I shake my head. “I’ve only listened to music. I’ve never made it.”
“I’ll show you how to do it, even if it kills you,” he says, chuckling, and we begin.
After about two hours of music theory, I can still only play a few scales. Stuart says I’m a fast learner, and I feel doubtful. He’s sure to have had better students than me!
“Why don’t you teach Adam this?” I ask, settling my pick on the side of the bass, where it promptly falls off. Stuart stoops to get it.
“Are you kidding? I would never…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, and hands the pick back to me. “Start over.” I haven’t misinterpreted that glint in his eye as his gaze roams over me. He’s a nice enough person, but when a man looks at me in that way my guard always comes up.
“I’d prefer to take a break,” I say, and stroll off with the bass in my arms.
Throughout the following day, when I’m not writing a phone call for MacPhisto, I am practicing bass guitar with Stuart or Adam. Sometimes other crewman watch my progression- Jack in particular, is intrigued. I know he likes seeing music being born. I try to play for him.
“Marieke,” he tells me in Dutch after a particularly grueling session, “you’re a true drama queen.” I only eyeball him. So what if I’d kept yelling expletives when I messed up? No one really cares, the way we talk around here.
Of course, Bono seem to think these lessons are very amusing. “What’re you trying to do, replace Adam as bass guitarist?” he asks me.
“No,” I reply scornfully, without an overdramatic head toss. “It’s just something to do in spare time.”
His laugh rings through the room. I roll my eyes and shove a piece of paper into his hand. “You. Get to reading this. Now.”
The Stockholm show is a fun one. Bono tells me that nothing can top their 1992 concert here, but in my eyes this one is pretty close. After Angel of Harlem, Bono holds the microphone stand and simply says, “This is a new song.” He’s holding his accustomed black guitar in his hands. A few cues are given, and the song starts with only two instruments- guitar and vocals.
“Green light, seven-eleven… you stop in for a pack of cigarettes… you don’t smoke, don’t even want to… hey now, check your change…”
Shock can’t register in my brain. I should have expected that U2 would begin playing more Zooropa songs than Numb live.
“Dressed up like a car crash… your wheels are turning, but you’re upside down. You say when he hits you, you don’t mind.” My heart is rent as Bono continues. “Because when he hurts you, you feel alive. Oh, now, is that what it is?”
He gives an obviously rehearsed cue and counts the rest of the band in. Larry and Adam join with pleasure, and Edge kicks into the repeating riff of Stay.
“Red light, gray in morning, you stumble out of a hole in the ground. A vampire or a victim, it depends on who’s around.” Bono leans back, immersed in the song. “You used to stay in to watch the adverts… you could lip sync to the talk shows.” His voice grows more passionate. “And if you look, you look through me. And if you talk, you talk at me… and when I touch you, you don’t feel a thing…”
Edge and Bono both sing on the chorus. “If I could stay, then the night would give you up! Stay, and the day would keep its trust! Stay, and the night would be enough!”
Bono clutches the guitar with care. “Far away, so close… up with the static and the radio waves… with satellite television, you can go anywhere.”
The people of Sweden get a pleasant surprise on the next line. “Miami, New Orleans… Stockholm-“ They roar. “To the rest of the world… And if you listen, I might call. And if you jump, you just might fall. And if you shout I’ll only hear you…” Ba-dum, dum.
“If I could stay, then the night would give you up! Stay, and the day would keep it trust! Stay, with the spirits I found! Stay, with the demons you drowned! Stay, and the night would be enough!”
I enjoy myself rocking back and forth as Bono pulls away and sings. “Oh-oh-oooh, oh, oh, ohhh… oh-oh-oooh, oh, oh, ohhh…” I can imagine his eyes closing, his skin sweating. Edge back him up on the final “OOOOh, oh, oh, ooooohhhh…”
Bono fingers the mic as if it’s an otherworldly object. He sings softly, “Three o’clock in the morning, it’s quiet and there’s no one around… the the bang and the clatter as an angel hits the ground.” The instruments become muted. “Just the bang and the clatter… as an angel, runs to ground.” Larry strikes a cymbal and the song is over. I cheer from backstage. What a great performance!
And it is days later, on the first of August, when we arrive in Nijmegen, Holland. I set foot on Dutch soil once again and have the time of my life with it.
***
Plunk. Plunka plunk. Plunka-plunka-plunk. Plunka-plunka-plunka-plunk.
I play a scale, moving my fingers up the strings of a bass guitar. The note names flash in my head with every string I touch. It vibrates across my body, and I dip the neck for a second to watch the sun glance off the knobs at the top.
When I’m done, Stuart applauds me. “We should teach you some nice riffs. Are there any songs you’d love to learn?”
“New Year’s Day?” I propose hesitantly.
Stuart nods. “Adam’s a very simple player. This should be easy.”
I work on it, guessing at the notes, and manage to pluck out the first bars, with a lot of restarting.
The plane moves under a cloud and the sunlight is gone. I fold my hands over the bass’s side. “Ow.”
“Let me see your fingers,” Stuart says. I extend my hand with a rueful expression. He sighs.
“You can’t play a bass with gloves, you know.”
“If it hurts why don’t you stop?” Eric asks from a few seats down.
“I’m not quitting,” I groan, taking up the instrument again.
“We’ve had to listen to that for this entire ride,” someone else speaks up. “You can practice later.”
“I don’t want to!” I insist, rolling my palm over the smooth wood.
Stuart glances backwards. “Maybe you should take a break.”
I hand the acoustic bass over to him and stare gloomily out the window. In a few moments we’ll be in Holland, in my birthplace. I’m allowed visit my parents when we arrive.
My thoughts float along with the clouds outside the plane. We might be greeted by rain in Nijmegen. That’s okay, I guess. At least I’ll be home… or is it home for me? When I think of home, I picture my flat in Rotterdam.
My eyes open to the sound of, “Welcome to The Netherlands!” I blink, adjusting my vision. We’re in Holland? How did we get here so fast?
The crew is departing the plane, and I tip myself onto the ground, placing my hands on my hips. The day is overcast, but it’s beautiful. I’m home!
Someone bumps into me, and I turn to see Eric. “Hey,” we say simultaneously, and both start, mirroring each other. Noticing this, we both laugh, and break off to identically shout, “Jinx!”
Eric ruins immediately it by complaining, “Stop mimicking me!”
“I’m not trying,” I say.
Eric’s mouth opens, but slams shut when another crewman collects our attention. “Come over, you lovebirds! We have to unload our baggage.”
“We’re not really- Hey, wait up!” Eric calls, seeing as I’m already running away from him. I laugh at hearing his footsteps pounding on the ground after me, attempting a swift pursuit. However, his body is chunkier than mine, and I reach the plane easily before he does. I toss my hair in Eric’s direction, pretending to flirt with him. He mock-tackles me, arms out, but I spin away and, grabbing my bag, make for the bus.
My strides eventually catch me up with Jack, at whom I fire a very long string of Dutch. He doesn’t even blink. “I’ve no idea what you just said, woman.”
“Someone needs to study,” I laugh. “Where in Holland did you used to live?”
“Rotterdam,” he answers. “Your hometown?”
I shake my head. “No. I was born in Nijmegen.” We both board the bus.
As the view outside the window flashes by, it digs up old memories from my mind. Many of the places we pass are all too familiar. It’s a comfort to be here again after days without a true home. The bus stops at the hotel for the Zoo TV entourage, but I stay on the bus and wave goodbye to my friends. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” I call out the window as the bus speeds up and we head further downtown.
I ask the driver where his route ends, my own language tasting like honey on my lips. He tells me and I calculate the closest stop to my parent’s house. It’ll be a long walk, but I’m quite fit from all these early morning jogs.
At the stop I stumble onto the sidewalk, dragging my luggage behind me, and grin to the man behind the wheel as he takes off again. I turn to my right and take the familiar path that will bring me eventually to the front door of my old home.
The first thing I notice about the house is the color. They’ve painted it light green- was that my mother’s doing? It sounds like her idea in the least. As I draw closer I spy the immense garden of flowers and smile, remembering my mom complaining about her boredom. She’s obviously getting the hang of retirement if this garden is any evidence to her caretaking skills.
And here she is, kneeling in the dirt, her gloved hands carefully fondling a green-leafed plant. My mother appears blissfully relaxed. I carry myself closer and clear my throat at the walkway to the door. “Ahem…”
Mom looks up. She blinks. “Marieke?!”
“Hey Mom,” I say, my voice awkward. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken Dutch to anyone but Jack, and even he doesn’t know every word. “I’m home.”
She stays where she is as I drop down to hug her.
“Marieke! Are you home for good now?”
“No,” I say. “The tour stopped in Nijmegen, and I figured…”
For the first time, Mom notices my suitcase. “Are you staying over tonight?”
“Yeah. Where’s Dad?” She can’t get inside without his help.
“On the porch…” Mom cups her hands to her lips and shrieks his name. After a few moments Dad appears, breaking into a wide grin when he sees me.
“Marieke, my God… what are you doing here?”
I repeat what I’ve just told my mother and he accepts it, the smile still stretched across his cheeks.
“Well. Let’s get you two into the house!” I pick up my bag and watch as Dad lifts Mom off the ground. He groans. “Must we always do this?”
“It’s not practical to have a garden when you can’t walk,” I tell my mom. She rolls her eyes. “Do you think this was my choice? No. If they hadn’t gotten rid of me I wouldn’t need entertainment…”
I sigh- same old Mom- and follow my parents into the house.
***
After hours of discussing my life on tour and three cups of tea, my parents finally fill me in on their life. It sounds so boringly simple compared to what I’ve been up to. They’ve been expecting a visit from my sister, which hasn’t arrived yet- and, secretly, relieves me greatly. I’m not sure if I’d be able to stand the whole family back together again.
Mom drains her last cup. “Lina called us once, too.” Her voice is reproachful. She’s never taken a caring to Lina, that girl I met in a record shop.
My heart pounds. “She did?” I ask, trying not to squeak.
“Yes, she did.” Mom tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and settles the cup firmly on the coffee table nearby.
“Why did she call you? Is she okay?”
“I don’t know,” Mom answers. “You’d know her better than me. She just asked if we were doing all right and if we’ve had any news from you.”
“Oh.” I try to comprehend that. Lina, calling my family before she calls me? But I’ve been giving her my phone numbers, haven’t I? Maybe I’ve forgotten a few recently, but it doesn’t mean I’ve disappeared.
“Have you kept in touch with her?” Dad asks, his voice ringing my ears.
“I’m not sure- we haven’t actually spoken in a while.” Certainly it can’t have been that long.
“Oh dear, look at the time!” Mom speaks up, glancing at the clock over the doorway. “We’ve talked the afternoon away. I’d better get dinner started!”
She takes up her walking sticks and pushes herself into the kitchen. The sight is familiar to me, reminiscent of the many times she cooked when I was a much younger child. Now I’m a woman, and I could offer to help her in the kitchen- it must be easier with two working legs. But if I know my Mom she won’t take any kind of offer.
Dad stares complexly into my eyes. “You’ve gotten a tan,” he notes. “You never were one for the outdoors. What’s changed?”
“Exercise,” I say, thinking of each of my early morning walks in the cities. “Exploration. I’ve never been outside The Netherlands. It’s amazing to discover new cultures in each place we visit.”
“Have you made any good friends on tour?” Dad asks. “Anyone to go on your explorations with you?”
“Sure,” I say, shrugging. “Eric.”
Is it me or do Dad’s eyes narrow at the name? “You must have met more folks than just him!”
“Well, technically I know the whole crew,” I say. “But I’m really only close to Eric, Jack, Morleigh… and Bono,” I say, tacking the last name to the end of my sentence like an afterthought.
“Bono, huh? Ah… my daughter knows real celebrities!” Dad laughs. I cringe- I’d thought I was being subtle.
Fortunately he doesn’t delve deeper than that. “Morleigh, is that a woman’s name?”
“Yeah…” I say slowly. “She’s one of the only women I’m friends with on the tour.”
“And the rest are men.” Dad claps his hands and leans forward to me. “Tell me, Marieke, how close is close?”
Oh no. As a man- and as my guardian- Dad is worried about my guy friends taking advantage of me. “You needn’t trouble yourself about that,” I tell him. “They haven’t been giving me any trouble. I’m not committing to anyone either.” Except there would be one man… if he wasn’t married and didn’t take more interest in a microphone than in me.
Dad isn’t surprised that I’ve read his mind. “Just be careful,” he says. “Rock and roll is all fun and games until somebody loses their virginity.” He taps my chest. I struggle not to roll my eyes, unable to heed this reminder.
A clatter drifts from the kitchen, and my mom swears abruptly. “Damn bowls!”
“What are you doing?” I call.
An irritated hiss- “Nothing, sweetheart. I’m making dinner.”
“Should we help her?” I ask my dad.
He shrugs. “Depends on how much you value your life.” With that Dad stands and crosses the room, leaving me to believe he would throw his away in a second for my mother.
The dinner is a steak, which mystifies me as to what the bowls were for. The meaning soon comes clear when much later after dinner, my mom pops into the kitchen and returns with a cake.
“No time to ice it,” she says, maneuvering herself over to my seat on the couch with Dad’s help. “Sorry, sweetheart.”
I stare at the cake. It’s yellow, my favorite flavor. Mom’s made it small too, just enough for me, her, and Dad. The icing that holds it together is vanilla, my favorite kind. I briefly wonder why she couldn’t have been bothered to put it on the top… but I guess she ran out or something. Dad produces utensils and we all eat dessert.
“To celebrate Marie’s homecoming,” Mom says, and I’m touched. I haven’t been called Marie in forever.
“And an early birthday cake,” Dad adds. “Happy August.”
As we eat I gaze around at the faces of my family and notice Mom’s graying hair, the slight wrinkles in Dad’s face. They’re growing old- it’s a frightening thought. Soon my dad won’t be able to carry Mom to and fro anymore. How will she get around if her sticks aren’t with her? Could anyone come to help them out?
My sister and her husband could take care of them- but I know she won’t leave Rotterdam for the world. All my parents’ friends are as old as they are. What if I moved back home and left Lina for good? I’m sure the decision would yield no bad results.
My parents have missed me since I first moved out, in 1985. That’s a long time to wait. I’ve been permanently gone from Nijmegen, only returning for serious events- which there have not been many of. If I left the city of Rotterdam, we would live happily together here.
“Your room’s upstairs,” my mother reminds me, as if she needed to. I hope there are still sheets on the bed.
I am a woman. I can’t live with my parents forever. If something awful happens- my mom has another accident and becomes paralyzed further, or one of them contracts a fatal disease- well, then I can go back to my home. But for now, my home is still a flat.
***
I awaken at six in a room stripped bare of possessions except for my own little suitcase. I dress for the weather- it’s going to be much warmer than yesterday, that I can tell from the sky- and slip downstairs with a paper and pencil in hand.
When Dad finds me I’m hunched over the paper, furiously writing, a bowl of cereal next to me. He turns on the light, though there’s really no reason with the risen sun in the sky. Dad swings past the table to get breakfast for himself and points at my paper. “What are you writing?”
“A speech,” I say. “Where’s Mom?”
“Still asleep,” he answers. “Give us a break. We’re not as young as you.” I laugh. “What’s the speech for?”
“It’s going to be performed at the concert,” I say. “Remember? I’m being paid to write them.”
Dad beckons with his finger, and I surrender the script to him. He reads it confusedly. “I didn’t know you could write in English.”
“Apparently you can read in it,” I say. “I only have to because Bono doesn’t speak Dutch.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Yeah, I would think not.” He hands it back to me and I tap my pencil on the table as he pours milk and makes his breakfast. We eat in silence for a bit.
“So are you ever going back to your old job?” Dad asks finally.
I think about the mess that must be waiting for me in Rotterdam. “I don’t want to, but I will eventually.”
“Are you leaving us today?”
That’s a definite yes. I’m not sure what’s going on with the Zoo crew, but Eric and Jack will probably be expecting me to arrive. And then there’s the speech which I have to deliver to Bono, and the soundchecks to listen to…
“I’ll miss you, Marieke.” His voice is wistful. I want to tell him to cut the sap. I won’t be gone forever.
“Are you coming to the show tonight?”
“Do we have tickets?” Dad counters. Well, that will be hard to bypass. However, I do work for the band, and I’ve stayed backstage for shows plenty of times. They can watch from the comfort of the sidelines. This of course is presuming they’re allowed to join me, which is a rule I think I can skirt. There’s always the hope that tickets aren’t sold out too, which is equally possible- I’m the only U2 fan I know in Nijmegen.
“I’m going to get your mom up,” Dad says, and leaves me alone with my milk and cereal, which is growing colder by the second.
Now that Mom’s awake I watch the usual morning feat of hers- coming downstairs without using her useless legs. Dad has always helped her in this chore, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and helping to support her weight. Once she’s down she grabs hold of the banister while Dad fetches her walking sticks. I smile with fresh amusement, for I haven’t seen that performed in a while.
Mom and Dad eat their breakfast- I’m already done with mine- and Mom begins a pot of tea. I drift over to the window seat at the front door and sit, gazing outside. The world will always be the same. Nothing changes in Nijmegen.
“Sweetheart, would you like some tea?” Mom asks.
“No, not now,” I say. “I have to make a phone call.”
I grab the receiver hanging on the wall in the kitchen and pull it to the couch, creating a barrier that my parents would have to limbo-stick under to get through. Carefully I dial the hotel number that the entourage is staying in.
“Hello,” the receptionist on the other end says in a cheery tone, and states the name of the hotel. “What can I do for you?”
“Hello,” I say. “I’d like to speak to someone, please.”
“Well, who would that be?”
“Is there an Eric Vandom in the lobby?” He’s usually one of the first down.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, we cannot make these sort of calls,” the receptionist says stiffly.
Good grief. She just doesn’t want to call out the name and then feel stupid when no one answers. Not that Eric wouldn’t be there in the first place! “I’m just trying to find one of my friends. Do you have the room number of Eric Vandom?”
“That is not information I can release.”
I almost say “Give me a break,” but stop myself. “Well, can you give me Jack Stuart’s room number? Morleigh Steinberg?”
With those names the receptionist realizes a pattern in my asking, and says, “I don’t believe these people are your friends. I’m sorry, but you’ll not get ahold of U2’s entourage today.” The phone clanks down.
Jeez, what does she take me for, a fan? I’m one of the entourage myself! I hang up the phone and my dad scurries across the now open space. “Having trouble?” he asks.
“Yes,” I growl. “They won’t let me through.” The only solution would be to arrive at the hotel in person.
“Dad, can I use the car?”
“Why?”
“I have to go to the hotel.” I collect the speech from the kitchen table and search for my shoes.
“Can’t you stay a bit longer?” Mom asks. She’s on the verge of pleading. I feel terrible to leave them when I’ve just come home yesterday. But…
“Duty calls,” I say, heading back over to the table. “Where are the keys?”
Dad roots around in a drawer before giving them to me. “You’ll be back tonight?”
“I don’t know when. It depends.” It depends on if I have any work to do at all, and if the hotel lets me into their lobby. The security is surely well-trained.
“Bye!” my parents call, my mother unhappier than Dad, who adds, “Don’t come back without tickets to this band of yours!”
I’m not going to forget!
This is not the first time I’ve driven my dad’s car. It is the first time I’ve driven it in a few years. I swing out of the driveway and roll onto the street, thankful that no one is watching from their houses. Now, which direction to the hotel?
The radio blares through my vehicle. I turn it down and fumble for a new channel, until I realize that this is my song.
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Lacht de duivel de zwarte duivel
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Brandt mijn hart mijn oude hart
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Sterft de zomer de droeve zomer
En schuurt het zand over mijn land
Mijn platte land mijn Vlaanderland
Yes! I haven’t listened to a song in Dutch since I joined the Zoo TV Tour. In fact, pretty much all I’ve listened to is U2. And to have my name in it as well…
Ai Marieke, Marieke
Revienne le temps
Revienne le temps
De Bruges et Gand
A smile crosses my face as I speed down a corner, as fast as the wind.
***
Bono has woken up with a different sort of song in his head.
Did you crack it?
Did you grab it?
Did you reel it
Like a rabbit?
Did you walk?
Did you run?
Did you move this here?
And how could you do
And make it so, sing this song?
Where did it all go wrong?
Where did it all go wrong?
He hums the song to himself and smiles, perplexed. It’s a silly B-side from one of the Achtung Baby singles- he just can’t remember which one. A few of the words escape him, but Bono sings through the whole song without stopping.
He sits on the bed, finds a pen, and begins to write something new, bearing down on the bedside table. Even with a new album out, there ain’t no rest for a songwriter.
***
I’ve just arrived at the door of the entourage’s hotel and I need to get inside.
A simple knock might let me in. However, the answerer of the door wouldn’t open up for just anyone. Especially when I have no proof of my affiliation with U2, only the script in my hand- and they wouldn’t know what it’s for anyway. Only the band would understand.
Just as I’m thinking I should probably just go back home, the door opens- for me? No, it’s a crewman letting himself out. That must mean they’re going down to the stadium- a stadium I know the location of. The crewman recognizes me- “Hey Marieke. Do you want in?” He deposits me in the lobby, where I try to look like I know where I’m going.
There’s no sign of any of my friends. Breakfast is over by this time. I try to escape the suspicious glance of the receptionist by trotting over to the elevator and studying the floor buttons as if I’m trying to decide where to go.
The receptionist still has her vacant eyes thrown my way. I pray silently that I won’t have to actually ride in the elevator, and scan out of the sides of my eyes for a familiar face. The lobby is all but deserted. Surely not all of the crewmen have gone.
A hand claps my shoulder, and I bite back a scream- stupid of me to fear. Whirling around, I come face to face with… Eric!
“Thank God you’re here!” I say, switching back to English fluidly.
He blinks. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I might have work,” I say, and step back from him.
Eric shakes his head. “I mean, who let you in?”
“A kind person,” I say. “Haven’t you got work at the stadium? You need to go.”
“And leave you here?” Eric asks.
Actually, I’m not sure what I was implying, but joining Eric in the stadium suddenly sounds quite feasible.
“No, I’ll join you, if you don’t mind…”
“Of course.” Eric draws me in. “I can’t leave you in this hotel! You have no idea where to go. Come on, the crew’s probably waiting for me. Let’s go to the stadium. Hey, what’s that paper for?” He gestures to my speech as we walk out the door.
Neither of us return to the hotel for a long while. After one day, I’ve missed my friends from the tour, and we get to chat happily. By noon the stage is half-constructed, practically in record time. It’s ready for U2 to start soundchecking for tomorrow’s show. I wonder again how I’m going to get my parents to the concert.
Laughing, Eric and I ride back to the hotel, where I take him for a drive to a restaurant. We eat on my budget, and I try teaching him more Dutch than he already knows. It barely works out.
“Are you going home now?” Eric asks as we drive away from the restaurant.
“Not without giving Bono his speech,” I say, making for the hotel.
“Won’t the band be at the stadium by now?”
I silently turn around.
Eric was right- U2 is at the stadium, and I hear them before I see them. Once back inside, my heart leaps with joy. I’ve missed not only Bono, but the whole group as well.
Every step I take leads me to the stage, and the faces of the band grow clearer. Edge and Adam are playing Bad. I don’t see Larry at first, nearly hidden behind the drum kit. Bono, however, is right up front as he should be, not singing, just messing around with a microphone. He takes it from its stand and dances down the catwalk, a blur of motion in a calmer song.
“Hey!” I call to them, waving my arms. “Hello!”
Edge stops his hushed melody of chords to wave back and smile. Obviously he hasn’t returned to reality after being jolted from the music world. Adam stops playing instantly and calls, “Hallo, Marieke!”
Larry adds a call of “Hey” without a smile- I can see in his eyes that he’s pleased to see me, though- and the man I’ve wanted attention from the most stops his travel down to the B stage and gives a huge exaggerated wave, complete with a cheesy smile. I laugh without moving my eyes, drinking in the sight of Bono.
“So this is your country,” Bono says, hopping off the stage and striding over to meet me. His arms are firm, muscular- and bare… He carries the microphone in one hand and blinks baby blue eyes at me.
Get your head out of the clouds!
“… it’s always surprising, you know, when you change your perspective,” Bono is saying. “I’ve been to Holland previously, but everything changes when I look at it through your eyes.”
I nod curtly, betraying no emotion. “It is very different.” As he comes within arm’s length, I hand him the script. God, but I’ve missed him!
“You’re not going to jump offstage in the middle of the real performance?” comes a woman’s voice. Morleigh’s.
I break away from Bono and wave to her. “Hey!”
“Hey,” Morleigh calls back, stepping out with an amused smile.
“Of course I won’t jump offstage. Marieke’s not going to be there,” mutters Bono, already reading my script.
I raise my eyebrow. “You’d dance with me?”
He lowers the paper to give me a wink. “What do you think?”
My knees are very close to buckling.
“Hey, let’s get back on track,” Adam says from the stage. He plays a chord on his bass- a note that I recognize. It makes me proud of my musical skills. “Are we finished with Bad?”
“I dunno, are we?” Bono asks, dashing back onstage. “Angel, I’ll get to this in a minute,” he says. “Just wait that long.”
I shrug. “Can I play bass while I wait?”
“I think so,” Adam says. “There’s surely one backstage. Go find Stuart, he’s around here somewhere.”
“See you!” I tell the band and Morleigh, and make my exit.
Backstage I bump into Bill- haven’t seen him in a while- and a few other folks, but not Stuart. I do, however, find one of the many basses Adam could have been referring to, and take one up. Slowly, very slowly, I tap out the bassline for New Year’s Day by ear.
The two easiest basslines, I’ve realized, are With or Without You and New Year’s Day. The rest of U2’s basslines are harder to puzzle out. A lot of them I’ve never heard clearly before.
A cry comes from the stage, Bono’s voice projected through a microphone at top volume. It transfers into “Where the streets have no name… where the streets have no name… still building then burning down love!”
I hear Adam’s bass, and quickly join in with my own notes, messing up frequently but sticking to it the best I can. Finally the song ends, and I hear Bono’s laughter- did he think my playing was funny? No, I wasn’t plugged into an amp, must have been something onstage I can’t see. At once Adam appears by my side, cradling his instrument.
“Would you like to play this?” He offers the guitar to me as if it’s made of diamonds.
I stroke the obvious object of affection. Judging from the sound it has produced onstage, this bass is the real deal. I play once vibrating note, and onstage the sound is amplified.
I turn and stroll onto the stage, carefully playing the bassline for With or Without You. I take Adam’s place on stage left, concentrating hard, and Edge joins in on the song, surprising me. The riff doesn’t sound the same as what Edge usually plays each night- maybe he’s using the wrong guitar. Yet he doesn’t stop, and Larry hits the drums, creating that thunderous sound I’ve always liked about the song.
Bono turns to us, his microphone clutched in both hands. “See the stone,” he murmurs, lifting it higher to his mouth, “set in your eyes. See the thorn twist in your side. I wait… for you…”
His voice is haunting. At once I can’t tell which way is up and which is down, and consequentially screw up the bassline. I drop my hands and step back, hoisting the bass over my head.
“That’s great,” Larry says. “Marieke, great playing there.”
I give Adam his guitar back.
“Let’s start over?” Bono suggests, drifting towards my spot onstage. Does he have to be so close? The air feels heavy, and I feel trapped. It’s time to go.
“I… think I’m leaving,” I say, foolish eyes still fastened on Bono- look away, you idiot! A ghost of a feeling- a wanting- closes in on me.
“We have to work the phone call out,” Bono states uncertainly. I know the whole band is watching me. The pressure is intense.
“I don’t feel well,” I murmur, backing up. If I get out of here, maybe the power will lessen. Where is it coming from?
Bono catches on. “Ah, I see. Well, you go home, and I hope you feel better.” I nod, and manage to start a “Goodbye” to the other band members before Bono touches me.
It’s a normal hug, the kind of embrace two friends would give before parting, and it should only last a few seconds. However, with the sensation of his hands on my body, my eyes roll back in my head and I cling on, fervently pressing my body to his. My vision blurs- I don’t know what I’m doing- and Bono pulls away from me, where I stand alone, trembling, creeping away backstage.
“Bye, guys,” I say, gathering composure and feeling sorry for myself. How am I supposed to interact with Bono like a normal human being, when with every touch of his, even the most casual, I want to thread my tongue through his earring hoop or push him to the ground? It’s crazy lust I’m facing now. Get off the stage!
“Bye, Marieke,” chorus the blending voices that I can’t hear. I push off, run backstage, and walk back to the car, towing Eric along with me. What have I learned from these few minutes? Avoiding the Bono makes the Bono more desirable.
It isn’t until much later that I realize I’ve stolen a bass as well.
Eric plays with the knobs on the neck of the guitar as I sing along to the song on the radio. His green eyes close. “You have a great voice.”
“Oh, it’s just singing,” I say. Personally I’ve never thought I’m particularly good at it. High notes destroy my capabilities. The only notes in my range are very low, and that’s not an admirable quality for a singer- unless they’re male, of course.
“I rarely hear you speak Dutch, much less sing in it” Eric points out, strumming randomly on the guitar. “Hey, we’re gonna give this back to Stuart, right?”
“I need one to practice,” I say, and turn into the hotel parking lot. “You get out now.”
“Aww…” Eric answers in mock-disappointment. “When will I see you again?”
“Whenever you can,” I say. “You’re not coming home with me. Get out!”
Eric sighs, overexaggerating the sound, and clambers out of the car. ”See you!”
I give him a tilt of my hand and pull out.
Where to now? I suppose I should go back home. Mom and Dad are probably waiting for me. I start off in the direction of the house.
But I remember that Mom told me not to come home until I’ve gotten two tickets to the show tomorrow.
I swerve in a new direction, not sure where I’m heading now. Darn it, I have to go back to the stadium and find out if the show’s sold out, then obtain tickets… and I’ll have to face that incredible lust again when I meet Bono. And he’ll want to go over my phone call…
I pull over and slump in my seat. The traffic is light, and nobody’s going to care if I’m not on the road. I can stay for as long as I want.
It’s time for me to be human- be myself.
I’m a woman. I have lived for nearly thirty years now, and I’ve had crushes and boyfriends and the like. I’ve fancied myself in love with several men- some of whom were downright nasty, but what can I say? Love is blindness. I’ve attracted the attention of scores of flirts from all over- it’s a wonder no women have developed crushes on me.
What Dad says is true- I haven’t lost my virginity yet. My relationships, however many, would never- could never- go as far as all the way. What was the point? I find it funny, now, that Lina has been in fewer relationships than me and yet she is the one to score a longtime boyfriend. Lina… A pang of worry hits me as I think of her. I’ve attempted to call her so many times, but she never picks up the phone anymore.
Bono could have been any one of those other men, I suppose. Like any crush, it’s best to move on. But how? I can only do that if we part ways forever. I had never taken interest in him until I met him personally.
I’m not despairing over a love that cannot be. I’m not crying, whining, gnashing my teeth and throwing tantrums. As I learned early on- and am relearning now- complaint won’t get you anywhere. Accept your situation and do what you can with it.
I am a woman, and it’s taken me thirteen years to realize it. The lack of this knowledge can be attributed to U2. I’ve aged more slowly after discovering the band. Dump the schoolgirl act, Marieke- you are an adult. I can take matters in my own hands.
***
I crack the door open slowly, hesitating before entering the room. “Hello?”
“Angel! Glad you could make it back.” Bono’s looking even sexier than usual, if such a thing is possible. His eyes are welcoming.
“Where’s the speech?” I ask, entering the room and closing the door behind me.
“I’ve got it,” he says, but the paper he hands to me isn’t my own handwriting. I squint. “What’s this?”
“Oh dear, what did I give you?” Bono asks, snatching the paper away. “Just some lyrics I was working on, nothing major.” He searches for my script.
“Is that it?” I ask, pointing to the edge of a paper sticking out from behind a couch cushion.
“Why, yes it is.” Bono yanks the paper out, and I hold my breath, hoping he didn’t tear it.
“It’s excellent, Angel,” he says, plopping down on his bed. I can’t help but join him.
Sitting so close, our heads bent over the same piece of paper, I can count every breath drawn through Bono’s lungs. He hasn’t spoken yet.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask.
“I’m waiting for you.” He sprawls out on the bed, horizontal, and I try to resist the urge to pet his body.
“What do you…” My throat catches. He’s beyond perfect.
“…want…”
It’s suddenly too much. I have to get away from him- why aren’t I leaving the room? My body is frozen while my mind says back off. I lean over him, trying to act casual.
His face is too irresistible.
The wanting I’ve held back since this afternoon floods over me, and I drop myself over his body, smashing my lips against his own. I’ve never kissed this man before… but he’s kissed me, in Bologna. I can almost taste him.
A feeling of horror runs through me, and I pull away. What have I done? Bono is married! “I’m so sorry-“ I begin.
“Hush,” he says, closing my lips with his fingers. “Don’t be sorry.” His eyes are wild, frightened- and eager. He wants me.
I cautiously kiss him again, and now I can’t stop. His hands latch around my back and push my shirt up. I can’t unlock my mouth from his for anything.
And I awaken.
I’m alone in my parents’ car, and it’s raining. The water washes over my windshield, and I straighten myself in my seat- the seatbelt is still buckled around my thin body- and turn the car on.
The first place to visit is down at the stadium. Even without entering I can tell no one is here. The band wouldn’t be working in this weather.
I speed back to the hotel, determined to meet Bono. Even if he’s not in love with me as I dreamed, we still need to go over that phone call. And I need to get tickets o the show for my parents.
After a few steps in the rain, I enter the building with my curls hanging bedraggled down my neck. The hotel lobby comforts me. In here it’s safe and warm. The receptionist from this morning recognizes me, and narrows her eyes. I can’t let her know I don’t belong here. Truly, I should just fess up to her, but I don’t want to. It’s risky- there’s no Eric to get me out of the situation now.
“Ma’am, can you come over here, please?” The receptionist’s eyes have zeroed in on me. I pretend not to notice, ignoring her.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” Her tone is steelier. “Can you come over here, please?” It’s no use disobeying, so I walk up to the desk.
“What is it?” I ask, playing the part of a startled, confused woman who entered the wrong hotel.
“Ma’am, can I have your name, please?” She’s recognized my voice from the phone call earlier this morning.
“It’s Marieke. Marieke Lang,” I say, knowing full well what she’s about to do.
“This hotel has no record of a Marieke Lang checking in during the past week,” the receptionist says.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I must have gotten lost…”
“You need to get out of this hotel. Who let you in?” the receptionist asks, finger on her walkie-talkie.
“I did,” a voice from behind me speaks up.
Both of us stare, shocked, and I turn around. Jack gazes unprotected into my eyes.
“She’s my friend. She works on tour with us. Give it a rest,” he tells the receptionist in Dutch.
The receptionist looks at me. “Do you know him?” she asks.
Yes, I do know Jack, and everything he said is true. However, the part about him letting me in is a lie. I haven’t seen him since I first left the stadium.
“I’m telling you, we know each other,” Jack says.
“Ma’am? Is this true?”
I find my voice. “Yes. We’re very close. I work for U2.”
“Why aren’t you rooming here?”
“If you haven’t noticed, I am Dutch,” I say. “My parents have a house here. That’s where I’m staying. Now, you don’t stop every suspicious looking person who walks through this hotel, do you? If I gave you proof of all my words, would you believe it?”
For effect, Jack slides his arm around my shoulder.
The receptionist has nothing to say. I can tell she wants to argue with me further, but is there a point? “Very well. Go off and hang out with your boyfriend.”
“Thank you,” Jack says, and lets go of me. “Come on, Marieke. I’ll take you to my room.” We enter the elevator.
Jack’s room is small and exactly the same as any hotel room I’ve ever stayed in, apart from several personal touches- Jack’s suitcase, shut up with some dirty clothes folded on top, and a book sitting on the bedside table with a green paperweight holding it open. Jack throws me a towel from the bathroom.
“You’re inexplicably wet,” he says. “Where’ve you been all this time?”
“I fell asleep on the side of the road,” I say, hugging the towel around my shoulders with a sigh. “I was inside the car,” I clarify as Jack raises his eyebrows.
“Well, that’s good,” he says. “How did you get so wet, though?” He sits on the bed, and I gratefully plunk down as well.
“The… rain…?”
“Oh, it was pouring that hard?” Jack shrugs. “I wouldn’t have known.” He stands and pulls the curtains back from the window, and we stare at a clear sky, slowly evaporating puddles.
“Well, it’s over now,” he says, and takes a seat next to me again.
“Woman, you really need a haircut.”
“It’s just from the rain,” I say.
“No- how long has it been since you went to the beauty shop?” Jack reaches out and dangles a strand of hair in my face to prove his point.
“So what do you want to do? Give me a makeover?”
“Oh, it could work,” Jack says.
We sit in silence for a bit. I think I’m all dry by now.
“Do you know Bono’s room number?”
“I do, but he’s not there. The whole band has gone out… or is it just Bono and Edge? I can’t remember…” Jack bangs his fist on his head in order to knock the memory loose.
“I need to see Bono about my speech. He still has the script.” So typical Bono! “He has to perform it tomorrow!”
“Oh, now I remember,” Jack continues, seemingly oblivious to my words. “The only band member who is still here is Adam. At least to the best of my knowledge. Larry went to explore Nijmegen, and Bono and Edge are at an interview.”
Oh. I’ve forgotten that there’s more to being a rock band than touring and selling records. They have to consult with the media, too. “When did they leave?” I ask.
“Roughly an hour from now- they left the stadium earlier,” Jack says. “It’s 16:45.”
“I hope Adam’s still here,” I mumble. “I’ve kidnapped a bass.” At once I start laughing, and Jack hesitantly joins in.
“Jack, is the show for tomorrow sold out?” I ask when I can speak.
He thinks. “Mmm, I’m not sure… you’ll have to ask someone else. Eric, maybe.” His eyes dart above my head. “You can stay with him until the band comes back.”
“Thanks,” I say, standing up. “Which room is he?”
“First floor, seventh on the left,” Jack answers. “See you!” I wave at him and exit.
Downstairs, I walk past the receptionist without another questioning. If she glares at me, maybe rolls her eyes or even smiles, I am immune to it. I walk past immaturity without even a glance in her direction, my back ramrod straight.
Eric answers to my knock, his eyes betraying surprise. “Oh, Marieke- what are you doing back here?”
“I’m in search of the band,” I say. “They’ve gone out, and I need to speak to Bono.” Eric lets me sashay in.
“Do you know if there are still tickets for tomorrow on sale?” I ask.
“Um… no, no, there aren’t any,” Eric replies, casting the door shut and walking the length of his room. “U2 must be popular in Holland.”
Thinking of how I’d flown out to Portugal to see the band live, I hypothesize that some of the audience consists of hardcore overseas fans like me.
“Did you want a seat in the audience?” Eric asks.
“No, it’s just that my parents need to see it,” I say. “I’m not to come home until I’ve found a way to take them to the show.”
“Then that’s a bummer,” says Eric. “You can never go home again.”
“Certainly there’s another way?” I ask. Maybe the band or crew or somebody will let me take them backstage.
“They could purchase passes for a meet-and-greet,” Eric starts doubtfully.
“Do you think if I ask one of the band members, he’ll let me take them backstage?”
“Um… possibly, for family of crew…” I get the feeling Eric hasn’t let his parents see him too often on tour.
“I’ll ask someone,” I say.
“You mean you’ll ask Bono?”
I have to turn my head from Eric. He keeps doing this to me- bringing up Bono’s name when we’re alone in order to watch my reactions. Does he want the secret to spread over the entire crew? Jack is a locked box- he can hold all kinds of valuables, secrets that no one but he has the key to- but Eric is somewhat of a blabbermouth. He’s so chattery, I’m afraid of what he could say on accident. And I swear to the nonexistent deity that he’s doing this on purpose.
“Yes,” I say, looking back at him. “He is hopefully the first person I’ll meet when I leave this room.”
“So stay a while,” Eric says, catching hold of my hand.
I yank my wrist free. “I wish you would stop doing that.”
“Doing what?” he asks, confused.
I exhale. “Eric. You really don’t know? The touching. The references to Bono. Stop embarrassing me! All the other crew members believe that we’re dating. I thought I could trust you with my secret, but you just want to make it clear that I like you, and yet you’re purposefully sticking Bono into the conversation to make me feel uncomfortable. You’re giving people the wrong impression!”
Eric bends his brow. “Well it’s hardly a secret. I wish you could see yourself when you stare at him. You act like you’re some kind of dog, the way you go out of your way to greet him every morning, how you practically drool when talking to him, the way you stare with those devoted eyes every night… Don’t you realize, he could step all over you and you’d take it as a way of expressing emotion? He’s got you on a leash, a woman who can’t move too far away from him without choking. You’ve got to get yourself together, or you could seriously pay for this behavior.”
I drop my eyes, cheeks burning. Something in Eric’s tone has upset me. I tell myself he’s just speaking out of bias and envy, and I don’t behave that obviously. In fact, I KNOW I’m not obvious in the least. I am a woman. I’ve gotten myself together already, and Eric just hasn’t received the memo.
“That really hurt, Eric,” I say. He tries to speak over me, but I hold him back with my eyes. “Stop it. Either cut out the crap about me and you, or keep quiet and never mention this again.”
Eric just blinks.
“I think I should go,” I whisper, and leave him hanging.
***
It takes a while, but I return home at 21:00, triumphant with news just as my parents are setting the table. Mom opens her arms, and I slide into them, and we fall on the sofa. I’ve come home empty-handed- well, excluding the bass- but I have a solution to the concert woes. “You and Dad are tripping backstage tomorrow night. We’re going to hang out with U2!”
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” she says, rubbing my shoulders. “I can’t wait to meet your friends.” Dad gives me a smile, and we sit down to eat.
Before completely starting in on my meal, I jump up and say, “May I be excused for a moment?” Both my parents nod. I dash upstairs and return with a plain white record, the title of the album being scrawled in pencil on the front. Zooropa.
“It’s time you got prepared,” I say. “This is the kind of music you might hear tomorrow.” I put it in our record player and smile to myself as the song I created fills the room. Mom looks a bit creeped out, and Dad is concentrating hard on his food. I know they’ve never taken too much to U2, but tomorrow they’ll be hearing over ten songs by them. They better enjoy it.
By the second song, Babyface- a song I’ve taken a liking to in light of recent events- they have started talking, and I have to join in. I don’t have to force them to pay attention to the music I so love.
Once the haunting euphoria of Lemon ends- “Just how long is this song?” Dad asks, glancing at the turntable- I do see a response from Mom to the music. As soon as Stay begins, the song I chose for a fifth track, Mom drops her fork. She quickly recovers and snatches it back up, eating with gusto, but her eyes are huge. I can tell she is really paying attention to the lyrics of the song and what they mean.
If I could stay, then the night would give you up
Stay, and the day would keep its trust
Stay with the demons you drowned
‘ Stay with the spirits I found
Stay and the night would be enough
“What’s this song called?” Mom asks.
“Stay,” I murmur. “Faraway, So Close.”
“I like it,” she tells me.
The next few songs fly by without any more recognition. We finish eating and I go in to wash the dishes, though I can’t hear the music from inside the kitchen. I figure Mom will be best left alone…
When Dad and I emerge she’s sitting on the couch, listening attentively to The First Time. We join her and engage in a soft family snuggle. Dirty Day comes on, and I think that will snap us from our peace. But no one speaks up, and so as The Wanderer starts we’re in bliss. Now Johnny Cash starts singing.
“Who is this…?” Dad asks.
“Johnny Cash,” I say, giggling a bit. “It’s a musical joke. Just bear with it.”
We relax again, and as the song ends I forget that the record is still spinning. None of us really takes notice. We must when the alarm sounds.
Mom is startled, and Dad looks worried. “Where’s that coming from?” he barks. I leap up and yank the needle off the record, and we keep a stark-silence.
“That,” I say, “is Zooropa.”
“That,” my mom says, “is better than Boy.” Which for her is saying a lot.
***
Two people fall into sleep that night, each with separate thoughts on his or her mind.
Marieke goes to bed thinking about her meeting with Bono over the phone call. She’d shoved her previous liebestraum to the very back of her mind and focused only on business- the writing angle she chose and what Bono thought of it. He’d praised her many times, but she had pretended not to notice.
I am a woman.
Bono falls asleep thinking about one thing- the concert tomorrow. He muses briefly on the prospect of Marieke’s parents joining her, and wonders if they’re anything like their daughter. He goes over the set in his mind, a calming action, and slips away into unconsciousness with one lyric prominent in his brain-
Where did it all go wrong?
It occurs a few days after the Oslo show, when Adam mounts the stage of the Swedish stadium to soundcheck his bass. I’m here as well, having virtually nothing else to do, and ask when Adam’s done if I can take bass lessons from him.
Adam scratches his head. “I’d be happy to do that favor, Marieke, but I don’t really know how to play myself.” Laughing, he explains that he is a self-taught musician, and wouldn’t know the first things about teaching someone else.
I shrug my shoulders. “Where’s your bass technician?”
Adam’s eyes light up. “Brilliant, Marieke. I’ll go find him.” He returns hauling another man by the elbow. “Marieke, this is Stuart. Stuart, meet Marieke.”
The two of us eye each other, shake hands, and exchange pleasantries. Stuart says, “So you want to play the bass guitar? We’ll see how this works out. Come on up here with me.” We go backstage with one final warning tossed to Adam- “Get back to work!”
Stuart helps me select one guitar to my liking. I hoist the strap over my head and gently touch the strings, feeling scared for a second. What if I break it by accident?
A pick is thrown at me, and Stuart says, “We’ll start you with basic scales. Have you ever taken music lessons?”
I shake my head. “I’ve only listened to music. I’ve never made it.”
“I’ll show you how to do it, even if it kills you,” he says, chuckling, and we begin.
After about two hours of music theory, I can still only play a few scales. Stuart says I’m a fast learner, and I feel doubtful. He’s sure to have had better students than me!
“Why don’t you teach Adam this?” I ask, settling my pick on the side of the bass, where it promptly falls off. Stuart stoops to get it.
“Are you kidding? I would never…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, and hands the pick back to me. “Start over.” I haven’t misinterpreted that glint in his eye as his gaze roams over me. He’s a nice enough person, but when a man looks at me in that way my guard always comes up.
“I’d prefer to take a break,” I say, and stroll off with the bass in my arms.
Throughout the following day, when I’m not writing a phone call for MacPhisto, I am practicing bass guitar with Stuart or Adam. Sometimes other crewman watch my progression- Jack in particular, is intrigued. I know he likes seeing music being born. I try to play for him.
“Marieke,” he tells me in Dutch after a particularly grueling session, “you’re a true drama queen.” I only eyeball him. So what if I’d kept yelling expletives when I messed up? No one really cares, the way we talk around here.
Of course, Bono seem to think these lessons are very amusing. “What’re you trying to do, replace Adam as bass guitarist?” he asks me.
“No,” I reply scornfully, without an overdramatic head toss. “It’s just something to do in spare time.”
His laugh rings through the room. I roll my eyes and shove a piece of paper into his hand. “You. Get to reading this. Now.”
The Stockholm show is a fun one. Bono tells me that nothing can top their 1992 concert here, but in my eyes this one is pretty close. After Angel of Harlem, Bono holds the microphone stand and simply says, “This is a new song.” He’s holding his accustomed black guitar in his hands. A few cues are given, and the song starts with only two instruments- guitar and vocals.
“Green light, seven-eleven… you stop in for a pack of cigarettes… you don’t smoke, don’t even want to… hey now, check your change…”
Shock can’t register in my brain. I should have expected that U2 would begin playing more Zooropa songs than Numb live.
“Dressed up like a car crash… your wheels are turning, but you’re upside down. You say when he hits you, you don’t mind.” My heart is rent as Bono continues. “Because when he hurts you, you feel alive. Oh, now, is that what it is?”
He gives an obviously rehearsed cue and counts the rest of the band in. Larry and Adam join with pleasure, and Edge kicks into the repeating riff of Stay.
“Red light, gray in morning, you stumble out of a hole in the ground. A vampire or a victim, it depends on who’s around.” Bono leans back, immersed in the song. “You used to stay in to watch the adverts… you could lip sync to the talk shows.” His voice grows more passionate. “And if you look, you look through me. And if you talk, you talk at me… and when I touch you, you don’t feel a thing…”
Edge and Bono both sing on the chorus. “If I could stay, then the night would give you up! Stay, and the day would keep its trust! Stay, and the night would be enough!”
Bono clutches the guitar with care. “Far away, so close… up with the static and the radio waves… with satellite television, you can go anywhere.”
The people of Sweden get a pleasant surprise on the next line. “Miami, New Orleans… Stockholm-“ They roar. “To the rest of the world… And if you listen, I might call. And if you jump, you just might fall. And if you shout I’ll only hear you…” Ba-dum, dum.
“If I could stay, then the night would give you up! Stay, and the day would keep it trust! Stay, with the spirits I found! Stay, with the demons you drowned! Stay, and the night would be enough!”
I enjoy myself rocking back and forth as Bono pulls away and sings. “Oh-oh-oooh, oh, oh, ohhh… oh-oh-oooh, oh, oh, ohhh…” I can imagine his eyes closing, his skin sweating. Edge back him up on the final “OOOOh, oh, oh, ooooohhhh…”
Bono fingers the mic as if it’s an otherworldly object. He sings softly, “Three o’clock in the morning, it’s quiet and there’s no one around… the the bang and the clatter as an angel hits the ground.” The instruments become muted. “Just the bang and the clatter… as an angel, runs to ground.” Larry strikes a cymbal and the song is over. I cheer from backstage. What a great performance!
And it is days later, on the first of August, when we arrive in Nijmegen, Holland. I set foot on Dutch soil once again and have the time of my life with it.
***
Plunk. Plunka plunk. Plunka-plunka-plunk. Plunka-plunka-plunka-plunk.
I play a scale, moving my fingers up the strings of a bass guitar. The note names flash in my head with every string I touch. It vibrates across my body, and I dip the neck for a second to watch the sun glance off the knobs at the top.
When I’m done, Stuart applauds me. “We should teach you some nice riffs. Are there any songs you’d love to learn?”
“New Year’s Day?” I propose hesitantly.
Stuart nods. “Adam’s a very simple player. This should be easy.”
I work on it, guessing at the notes, and manage to pluck out the first bars, with a lot of restarting.
The plane moves under a cloud and the sunlight is gone. I fold my hands over the bass’s side. “Ow.”
“Let me see your fingers,” Stuart says. I extend my hand with a rueful expression. He sighs.
“You can’t play a bass with gloves, you know.”
“If it hurts why don’t you stop?” Eric asks from a few seats down.
“I’m not quitting,” I groan, taking up the instrument again.
“We’ve had to listen to that for this entire ride,” someone else speaks up. “You can practice later.”
“I don’t want to!” I insist, rolling my palm over the smooth wood.
Stuart glances backwards. “Maybe you should take a break.”
I hand the acoustic bass over to him and stare gloomily out the window. In a few moments we’ll be in Holland, in my birthplace. I’m allowed visit my parents when we arrive.
My thoughts float along with the clouds outside the plane. We might be greeted by rain in Nijmegen. That’s okay, I guess. At least I’ll be home… or is it home for me? When I think of home, I picture my flat in Rotterdam.
My eyes open to the sound of, “Welcome to The Netherlands!” I blink, adjusting my vision. We’re in Holland? How did we get here so fast?
The crew is departing the plane, and I tip myself onto the ground, placing my hands on my hips. The day is overcast, but it’s beautiful. I’m home!
Someone bumps into me, and I turn to see Eric. “Hey,” we say simultaneously, and both start, mirroring each other. Noticing this, we both laugh, and break off to identically shout, “Jinx!”
Eric ruins immediately it by complaining, “Stop mimicking me!”
“I’m not trying,” I say.
Eric’s mouth opens, but slams shut when another crewman collects our attention. “Come over, you lovebirds! We have to unload our baggage.”
“We’re not really- Hey, wait up!” Eric calls, seeing as I’m already running away from him. I laugh at hearing his footsteps pounding on the ground after me, attempting a swift pursuit. However, his body is chunkier than mine, and I reach the plane easily before he does. I toss my hair in Eric’s direction, pretending to flirt with him. He mock-tackles me, arms out, but I spin away and, grabbing my bag, make for the bus.
My strides eventually catch me up with Jack, at whom I fire a very long string of Dutch. He doesn’t even blink. “I’ve no idea what you just said, woman.”
“Someone needs to study,” I laugh. “Where in Holland did you used to live?”
“Rotterdam,” he answers. “Your hometown?”
I shake my head. “No. I was born in Nijmegen.” We both board the bus.
As the view outside the window flashes by, it digs up old memories from my mind. Many of the places we pass are all too familiar. It’s a comfort to be here again after days without a true home. The bus stops at the hotel for the Zoo TV entourage, but I stay on the bus and wave goodbye to my friends. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” I call out the window as the bus speeds up and we head further downtown.
I ask the driver where his route ends, my own language tasting like honey on my lips. He tells me and I calculate the closest stop to my parent’s house. It’ll be a long walk, but I’m quite fit from all these early morning jogs.
At the stop I stumble onto the sidewalk, dragging my luggage behind me, and grin to the man behind the wheel as he takes off again. I turn to my right and take the familiar path that will bring me eventually to the front door of my old home.
The first thing I notice about the house is the color. They’ve painted it light green- was that my mother’s doing? It sounds like her idea in the least. As I draw closer I spy the immense garden of flowers and smile, remembering my mom complaining about her boredom. She’s obviously getting the hang of retirement if this garden is any evidence to her caretaking skills.
And here she is, kneeling in the dirt, her gloved hands carefully fondling a green-leafed plant. My mother appears blissfully relaxed. I carry myself closer and clear my throat at the walkway to the door. “Ahem…”
Mom looks up. She blinks. “Marieke?!”
“Hey Mom,” I say, my voice awkward. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken Dutch to anyone but Jack, and even he doesn’t know every word. “I’m home.”
She stays where she is as I drop down to hug her.
“Marieke! Are you home for good now?”
“No,” I say. “The tour stopped in Nijmegen, and I figured…”
For the first time, Mom notices my suitcase. “Are you staying over tonight?”
“Yeah. Where’s Dad?” She can’t get inside without his help.
“On the porch…” Mom cups her hands to her lips and shrieks his name. After a few moments Dad appears, breaking into a wide grin when he sees me.
“Marieke, my God… what are you doing here?”
I repeat what I’ve just told my mother and he accepts it, the smile still stretched across his cheeks.
“Well. Let’s get you two into the house!” I pick up my bag and watch as Dad lifts Mom off the ground. He groans. “Must we always do this?”
“It’s not practical to have a garden when you can’t walk,” I tell my mom. She rolls her eyes. “Do you think this was my choice? No. If they hadn’t gotten rid of me I wouldn’t need entertainment…”
I sigh- same old Mom- and follow my parents into the house.
***
After hours of discussing my life on tour and three cups of tea, my parents finally fill me in on their life. It sounds so boringly simple compared to what I’ve been up to. They’ve been expecting a visit from my sister, which hasn’t arrived yet- and, secretly, relieves me greatly. I’m not sure if I’d be able to stand the whole family back together again.
Mom drains her last cup. “Lina called us once, too.” Her voice is reproachful. She’s never taken a caring to Lina, that girl I met in a record shop.
My heart pounds. “She did?” I ask, trying not to squeak.
“Yes, she did.” Mom tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and settles the cup firmly on the coffee table nearby.
“Why did she call you? Is she okay?”
“I don’t know,” Mom answers. “You’d know her better than me. She just asked if we were doing all right and if we’ve had any news from you.”
“Oh.” I try to comprehend that. Lina, calling my family before she calls me? But I’ve been giving her my phone numbers, haven’t I? Maybe I’ve forgotten a few recently, but it doesn’t mean I’ve disappeared.
“Have you kept in touch with her?” Dad asks, his voice ringing my ears.
“I’m not sure- we haven’t actually spoken in a while.” Certainly it can’t have been that long.
“Oh dear, look at the time!” Mom speaks up, glancing at the clock over the doorway. “We’ve talked the afternoon away. I’d better get dinner started!”
She takes up her walking sticks and pushes herself into the kitchen. The sight is familiar to me, reminiscent of the many times she cooked when I was a much younger child. Now I’m a woman, and I could offer to help her in the kitchen- it must be easier with two working legs. But if I know my Mom she won’t take any kind of offer.
Dad stares complexly into my eyes. “You’ve gotten a tan,” he notes. “You never were one for the outdoors. What’s changed?”
“Exercise,” I say, thinking of each of my early morning walks in the cities. “Exploration. I’ve never been outside The Netherlands. It’s amazing to discover new cultures in each place we visit.”
“Have you made any good friends on tour?” Dad asks. “Anyone to go on your explorations with you?”
“Sure,” I say, shrugging. “Eric.”
Is it me or do Dad’s eyes narrow at the name? “You must have met more folks than just him!”
“Well, technically I know the whole crew,” I say. “But I’m really only close to Eric, Jack, Morleigh… and Bono,” I say, tacking the last name to the end of my sentence like an afterthought.
“Bono, huh? Ah… my daughter knows real celebrities!” Dad laughs. I cringe- I’d thought I was being subtle.
Fortunately he doesn’t delve deeper than that. “Morleigh, is that a woman’s name?”
“Yeah…” I say slowly. “She’s one of the only women I’m friends with on the tour.”
“And the rest are men.” Dad claps his hands and leans forward to me. “Tell me, Marieke, how close is close?”
Oh no. As a man- and as my guardian- Dad is worried about my guy friends taking advantage of me. “You needn’t trouble yourself about that,” I tell him. “They haven’t been giving me any trouble. I’m not committing to anyone either.” Except there would be one man… if he wasn’t married and didn’t take more interest in a microphone than in me.
Dad isn’t surprised that I’ve read his mind. “Just be careful,” he says. “Rock and roll is all fun and games until somebody loses their virginity.” He taps my chest. I struggle not to roll my eyes, unable to heed this reminder.
A clatter drifts from the kitchen, and my mom swears abruptly. “Damn bowls!”
“What are you doing?” I call.
An irritated hiss- “Nothing, sweetheart. I’m making dinner.”
“Should we help her?” I ask my dad.
He shrugs. “Depends on how much you value your life.” With that Dad stands and crosses the room, leaving me to believe he would throw his away in a second for my mother.
The dinner is a steak, which mystifies me as to what the bowls were for. The meaning soon comes clear when much later after dinner, my mom pops into the kitchen and returns with a cake.
“No time to ice it,” she says, maneuvering herself over to my seat on the couch with Dad’s help. “Sorry, sweetheart.”
I stare at the cake. It’s yellow, my favorite flavor. Mom’s made it small too, just enough for me, her, and Dad. The icing that holds it together is vanilla, my favorite kind. I briefly wonder why she couldn’t have been bothered to put it on the top… but I guess she ran out or something. Dad produces utensils and we all eat dessert.
“To celebrate Marie’s homecoming,” Mom says, and I’m touched. I haven’t been called Marie in forever.
“And an early birthday cake,” Dad adds. “Happy August.”
As we eat I gaze around at the faces of my family and notice Mom’s graying hair, the slight wrinkles in Dad’s face. They’re growing old- it’s a frightening thought. Soon my dad won’t be able to carry Mom to and fro anymore. How will she get around if her sticks aren’t with her? Could anyone come to help them out?
My sister and her husband could take care of them- but I know she won’t leave Rotterdam for the world. All my parents’ friends are as old as they are. What if I moved back home and left Lina for good? I’m sure the decision would yield no bad results.
My parents have missed me since I first moved out, in 1985. That’s a long time to wait. I’ve been permanently gone from Nijmegen, only returning for serious events- which there have not been many of. If I left the city of Rotterdam, we would live happily together here.
“Your room’s upstairs,” my mother reminds me, as if she needed to. I hope there are still sheets on the bed.
I am a woman. I can’t live with my parents forever. If something awful happens- my mom has another accident and becomes paralyzed further, or one of them contracts a fatal disease- well, then I can go back to my home. But for now, my home is still a flat.
***
I awaken at six in a room stripped bare of possessions except for my own little suitcase. I dress for the weather- it’s going to be much warmer than yesterday, that I can tell from the sky- and slip downstairs with a paper and pencil in hand.
When Dad finds me I’m hunched over the paper, furiously writing, a bowl of cereal next to me. He turns on the light, though there’s really no reason with the risen sun in the sky. Dad swings past the table to get breakfast for himself and points at my paper. “What are you writing?”
“A speech,” I say. “Where’s Mom?”
“Still asleep,” he answers. “Give us a break. We’re not as young as you.” I laugh. “What’s the speech for?”
“It’s going to be performed at the concert,” I say. “Remember? I’m being paid to write them.”
Dad beckons with his finger, and I surrender the script to him. He reads it confusedly. “I didn’t know you could write in English.”
“Apparently you can read in it,” I say. “I only have to because Bono doesn’t speak Dutch.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Yeah, I would think not.” He hands it back to me and I tap my pencil on the table as he pours milk and makes his breakfast. We eat in silence for a bit.
“So are you ever going back to your old job?” Dad asks finally.
I think about the mess that must be waiting for me in Rotterdam. “I don’t want to, but I will eventually.”
“Are you leaving us today?”
That’s a definite yes. I’m not sure what’s going on with the Zoo crew, but Eric and Jack will probably be expecting me to arrive. And then there’s the speech which I have to deliver to Bono, and the soundchecks to listen to…
“I’ll miss you, Marieke.” His voice is wistful. I want to tell him to cut the sap. I won’t be gone forever.
“Are you coming to the show tonight?”
“Do we have tickets?” Dad counters. Well, that will be hard to bypass. However, I do work for the band, and I’ve stayed backstage for shows plenty of times. They can watch from the comfort of the sidelines. This of course is presuming they’re allowed to join me, which is a rule I think I can skirt. There’s always the hope that tickets aren’t sold out too, which is equally possible- I’m the only U2 fan I know in Nijmegen.
“I’m going to get your mom up,” Dad says, and leaves me alone with my milk and cereal, which is growing colder by the second.
Now that Mom’s awake I watch the usual morning feat of hers- coming downstairs without using her useless legs. Dad has always helped her in this chore, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and helping to support her weight. Once she’s down she grabs hold of the banister while Dad fetches her walking sticks. I smile with fresh amusement, for I haven’t seen that performed in a while.
Mom and Dad eat their breakfast- I’m already done with mine- and Mom begins a pot of tea. I drift over to the window seat at the front door and sit, gazing outside. The world will always be the same. Nothing changes in Nijmegen.
“Sweetheart, would you like some tea?” Mom asks.
“No, not now,” I say. “I have to make a phone call.”
I grab the receiver hanging on the wall in the kitchen and pull it to the couch, creating a barrier that my parents would have to limbo-stick under to get through. Carefully I dial the hotel number that the entourage is staying in.
“Hello,” the receptionist on the other end says in a cheery tone, and states the name of the hotel. “What can I do for you?”
“Hello,” I say. “I’d like to speak to someone, please.”
“Well, who would that be?”
“Is there an Eric Vandom in the lobby?” He’s usually one of the first down.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, we cannot make these sort of calls,” the receptionist says stiffly.
Good grief. She just doesn’t want to call out the name and then feel stupid when no one answers. Not that Eric wouldn’t be there in the first place! “I’m just trying to find one of my friends. Do you have the room number of Eric Vandom?”
“That is not information I can release.”
I almost say “Give me a break,” but stop myself. “Well, can you give me Jack Stuart’s room number? Morleigh Steinberg?”
With those names the receptionist realizes a pattern in my asking, and says, “I don’t believe these people are your friends. I’m sorry, but you’ll not get ahold of U2’s entourage today.” The phone clanks down.
Jeez, what does she take me for, a fan? I’m one of the entourage myself! I hang up the phone and my dad scurries across the now open space. “Having trouble?” he asks.
“Yes,” I growl. “They won’t let me through.” The only solution would be to arrive at the hotel in person.
“Dad, can I use the car?”
“Why?”
“I have to go to the hotel.” I collect the speech from the kitchen table and search for my shoes.
“Can’t you stay a bit longer?” Mom asks. She’s on the verge of pleading. I feel terrible to leave them when I’ve just come home yesterday. But…
“Duty calls,” I say, heading back over to the table. “Where are the keys?”
Dad roots around in a drawer before giving them to me. “You’ll be back tonight?”
“I don’t know when. It depends.” It depends on if I have any work to do at all, and if the hotel lets me into their lobby. The security is surely well-trained.
“Bye!” my parents call, my mother unhappier than Dad, who adds, “Don’t come back without tickets to this band of yours!”
I’m not going to forget!
This is not the first time I’ve driven my dad’s car. It is the first time I’ve driven it in a few years. I swing out of the driveway and roll onto the street, thankful that no one is watching from their houses. Now, which direction to the hotel?
The radio blares through my vehicle. I turn it down and fumble for a new channel, until I realize that this is my song.
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Lacht de duivel de zwarte duivel
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Brandt mijn hart mijn oude hart
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Sterft de zomer de droeve zomer
En schuurt het zand over mijn land
Mijn platte land mijn Vlaanderland
Yes! I haven’t listened to a song in Dutch since I joined the Zoo TV Tour. In fact, pretty much all I’ve listened to is U2. And to have my name in it as well…
Ai Marieke, Marieke
Revienne le temps
Revienne le temps
De Bruges et Gand
A smile crosses my face as I speed down a corner, as fast as the wind.
***
Bono has woken up with a different sort of song in his head.
Did you crack it?
Did you grab it?
Did you reel it
Like a rabbit?
Did you walk?
Did you run?
Did you move this here?
And how could you do
And make it so, sing this song?
Where did it all go wrong?
Where did it all go wrong?
He hums the song to himself and smiles, perplexed. It’s a silly B-side from one of the Achtung Baby singles- he just can’t remember which one. A few of the words escape him, but Bono sings through the whole song without stopping.
He sits on the bed, finds a pen, and begins to write something new, bearing down on the bedside table. Even with a new album out, there ain’t no rest for a songwriter.
***
I’ve just arrived at the door of the entourage’s hotel and I need to get inside.
A simple knock might let me in. However, the answerer of the door wouldn’t open up for just anyone. Especially when I have no proof of my affiliation with U2, only the script in my hand- and they wouldn’t know what it’s for anyway. Only the band would understand.
Just as I’m thinking I should probably just go back home, the door opens- for me? No, it’s a crewman letting himself out. That must mean they’re going down to the stadium- a stadium I know the location of. The crewman recognizes me- “Hey Marieke. Do you want in?” He deposits me in the lobby, where I try to look like I know where I’m going.
There’s no sign of any of my friends. Breakfast is over by this time. I try to escape the suspicious glance of the receptionist by trotting over to the elevator and studying the floor buttons as if I’m trying to decide where to go.
The receptionist still has her vacant eyes thrown my way. I pray silently that I won’t have to actually ride in the elevator, and scan out of the sides of my eyes for a familiar face. The lobby is all but deserted. Surely not all of the crewmen have gone.
A hand claps my shoulder, and I bite back a scream- stupid of me to fear. Whirling around, I come face to face with… Eric!
“Thank God you’re here!” I say, switching back to English fluidly.
He blinks. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I might have work,” I say, and step back from him.
Eric shakes his head. “I mean, who let you in?”
“A kind person,” I say. “Haven’t you got work at the stadium? You need to go.”
“And leave you here?” Eric asks.
Actually, I’m not sure what I was implying, but joining Eric in the stadium suddenly sounds quite feasible.
“No, I’ll join you, if you don’t mind…”
“Of course.” Eric draws me in. “I can’t leave you in this hotel! You have no idea where to go. Come on, the crew’s probably waiting for me. Let’s go to the stadium. Hey, what’s that paper for?” He gestures to my speech as we walk out the door.
Neither of us return to the hotel for a long while. After one day, I’ve missed my friends from the tour, and we get to chat happily. By noon the stage is half-constructed, practically in record time. It’s ready for U2 to start soundchecking for tomorrow’s show. I wonder again how I’m going to get my parents to the concert.
Laughing, Eric and I ride back to the hotel, where I take him for a drive to a restaurant. We eat on my budget, and I try teaching him more Dutch than he already knows. It barely works out.
“Are you going home now?” Eric asks as we drive away from the restaurant.
“Not without giving Bono his speech,” I say, making for the hotel.
“Won’t the band be at the stadium by now?”
I silently turn around.
Eric was right- U2 is at the stadium, and I hear them before I see them. Once back inside, my heart leaps with joy. I’ve missed not only Bono, but the whole group as well.
Every step I take leads me to the stage, and the faces of the band grow clearer. Edge and Adam are playing Bad. I don’t see Larry at first, nearly hidden behind the drum kit. Bono, however, is right up front as he should be, not singing, just messing around with a microphone. He takes it from its stand and dances down the catwalk, a blur of motion in a calmer song.
“Hey!” I call to them, waving my arms. “Hello!”
Edge stops his hushed melody of chords to wave back and smile. Obviously he hasn’t returned to reality after being jolted from the music world. Adam stops playing instantly and calls, “Hallo, Marieke!”
Larry adds a call of “Hey” without a smile- I can see in his eyes that he’s pleased to see me, though- and the man I’ve wanted attention from the most stops his travel down to the B stage and gives a huge exaggerated wave, complete with a cheesy smile. I laugh without moving my eyes, drinking in the sight of Bono.
“So this is your country,” Bono says, hopping off the stage and striding over to meet me. His arms are firm, muscular- and bare… He carries the microphone in one hand and blinks baby blue eyes at me.
Get your head out of the clouds!
“… it’s always surprising, you know, when you change your perspective,” Bono is saying. “I’ve been to Holland previously, but everything changes when I look at it through your eyes.”
I nod curtly, betraying no emotion. “It is very different.” As he comes within arm’s length, I hand him the script. God, but I’ve missed him!
“You’re not going to jump offstage in the middle of the real performance?” comes a woman’s voice. Morleigh’s.
I break away from Bono and wave to her. “Hey!”
“Hey,” Morleigh calls back, stepping out with an amused smile.
“Of course I won’t jump offstage. Marieke’s not going to be there,” mutters Bono, already reading my script.
I raise my eyebrow. “You’d dance with me?”
He lowers the paper to give me a wink. “What do you think?”
My knees are very close to buckling.
“Hey, let’s get back on track,” Adam says from the stage. He plays a chord on his bass- a note that I recognize. It makes me proud of my musical skills. “Are we finished with Bad?”
“I dunno, are we?” Bono asks, dashing back onstage. “Angel, I’ll get to this in a minute,” he says. “Just wait that long.”
I shrug. “Can I play bass while I wait?”
“I think so,” Adam says. “There’s surely one backstage. Go find Stuart, he’s around here somewhere.”
“See you!” I tell the band and Morleigh, and make my exit.
Backstage I bump into Bill- haven’t seen him in a while- and a few other folks, but not Stuart. I do, however, find one of the many basses Adam could have been referring to, and take one up. Slowly, very slowly, I tap out the bassline for New Year’s Day by ear.
The two easiest basslines, I’ve realized, are With or Without You and New Year’s Day. The rest of U2’s basslines are harder to puzzle out. A lot of them I’ve never heard clearly before.
A cry comes from the stage, Bono’s voice projected through a microphone at top volume. It transfers into “Where the streets have no name… where the streets have no name… still building then burning down love!”
I hear Adam’s bass, and quickly join in with my own notes, messing up frequently but sticking to it the best I can. Finally the song ends, and I hear Bono’s laughter- did he think my playing was funny? No, I wasn’t plugged into an amp, must have been something onstage I can’t see. At once Adam appears by my side, cradling his instrument.
“Would you like to play this?” He offers the guitar to me as if it’s made of diamonds.
I stroke the obvious object of affection. Judging from the sound it has produced onstage, this bass is the real deal. I play once vibrating note, and onstage the sound is amplified.
I turn and stroll onto the stage, carefully playing the bassline for With or Without You. I take Adam’s place on stage left, concentrating hard, and Edge joins in on the song, surprising me. The riff doesn’t sound the same as what Edge usually plays each night- maybe he’s using the wrong guitar. Yet he doesn’t stop, and Larry hits the drums, creating that thunderous sound I’ve always liked about the song.
Bono turns to us, his microphone clutched in both hands. “See the stone,” he murmurs, lifting it higher to his mouth, “set in your eyes. See the thorn twist in your side. I wait… for you…”
His voice is haunting. At once I can’t tell which way is up and which is down, and consequentially screw up the bassline. I drop my hands and step back, hoisting the bass over my head.
“That’s great,” Larry says. “Marieke, great playing there.”
I give Adam his guitar back.
“Let’s start over?” Bono suggests, drifting towards my spot onstage. Does he have to be so close? The air feels heavy, and I feel trapped. It’s time to go.
“I… think I’m leaving,” I say, foolish eyes still fastened on Bono- look away, you idiot! A ghost of a feeling- a wanting- closes in on me.
“We have to work the phone call out,” Bono states uncertainly. I know the whole band is watching me. The pressure is intense.
“I don’t feel well,” I murmur, backing up. If I get out of here, maybe the power will lessen. Where is it coming from?
Bono catches on. “Ah, I see. Well, you go home, and I hope you feel better.” I nod, and manage to start a “Goodbye” to the other band members before Bono touches me.
It’s a normal hug, the kind of embrace two friends would give before parting, and it should only last a few seconds. However, with the sensation of his hands on my body, my eyes roll back in my head and I cling on, fervently pressing my body to his. My vision blurs- I don’t know what I’m doing- and Bono pulls away from me, where I stand alone, trembling, creeping away backstage.
“Bye, guys,” I say, gathering composure and feeling sorry for myself. How am I supposed to interact with Bono like a normal human being, when with every touch of his, even the most casual, I want to thread my tongue through his earring hoop or push him to the ground? It’s crazy lust I’m facing now. Get off the stage!
“Bye, Marieke,” chorus the blending voices that I can’t hear. I push off, run backstage, and walk back to the car, towing Eric along with me. What have I learned from these few minutes? Avoiding the Bono makes the Bono more desirable.
It isn’t until much later that I realize I’ve stolen a bass as well.
Eric plays with the knobs on the neck of the guitar as I sing along to the song on the radio. His green eyes close. “You have a great voice.”
“Oh, it’s just singing,” I say. Personally I’ve never thought I’m particularly good at it. High notes destroy my capabilities. The only notes in my range are very low, and that’s not an admirable quality for a singer- unless they’re male, of course.
“I rarely hear you speak Dutch, much less sing in it” Eric points out, strumming randomly on the guitar. “Hey, we’re gonna give this back to Stuart, right?”
“I need one to practice,” I say, and turn into the hotel parking lot. “You get out now.”
“Aww…” Eric answers in mock-disappointment. “When will I see you again?”
“Whenever you can,” I say. “You’re not coming home with me. Get out!”
Eric sighs, overexaggerating the sound, and clambers out of the car. ”See you!”
I give him a tilt of my hand and pull out.
Where to now? I suppose I should go back home. Mom and Dad are probably waiting for me. I start off in the direction of the house.
But I remember that Mom told me not to come home until I’ve gotten two tickets to the show tomorrow.
I swerve in a new direction, not sure where I’m heading now. Darn it, I have to go back to the stadium and find out if the show’s sold out, then obtain tickets… and I’ll have to face that incredible lust again when I meet Bono. And he’ll want to go over my phone call…
I pull over and slump in my seat. The traffic is light, and nobody’s going to care if I’m not on the road. I can stay for as long as I want.
It’s time for me to be human- be myself.
I’m a woman. I have lived for nearly thirty years now, and I’ve had crushes and boyfriends and the like. I’ve fancied myself in love with several men- some of whom were downright nasty, but what can I say? Love is blindness. I’ve attracted the attention of scores of flirts from all over- it’s a wonder no women have developed crushes on me.
What Dad says is true- I haven’t lost my virginity yet. My relationships, however many, would never- could never- go as far as all the way. What was the point? I find it funny, now, that Lina has been in fewer relationships than me and yet she is the one to score a longtime boyfriend. Lina… A pang of worry hits me as I think of her. I’ve attempted to call her so many times, but she never picks up the phone anymore.
Bono could have been any one of those other men, I suppose. Like any crush, it’s best to move on. But how? I can only do that if we part ways forever. I had never taken interest in him until I met him personally.
I’m not despairing over a love that cannot be. I’m not crying, whining, gnashing my teeth and throwing tantrums. As I learned early on- and am relearning now- complaint won’t get you anywhere. Accept your situation and do what you can with it.
I am a woman, and it’s taken me thirteen years to realize it. The lack of this knowledge can be attributed to U2. I’ve aged more slowly after discovering the band. Dump the schoolgirl act, Marieke- you are an adult. I can take matters in my own hands.
***
I crack the door open slowly, hesitating before entering the room. “Hello?”
“Angel! Glad you could make it back.” Bono’s looking even sexier than usual, if such a thing is possible. His eyes are welcoming.
“Where’s the speech?” I ask, entering the room and closing the door behind me.
“I’ve got it,” he says, but the paper he hands to me isn’t my own handwriting. I squint. “What’s this?”
“Oh dear, what did I give you?” Bono asks, snatching the paper away. “Just some lyrics I was working on, nothing major.” He searches for my script.
“Is that it?” I ask, pointing to the edge of a paper sticking out from behind a couch cushion.
“Why, yes it is.” Bono yanks the paper out, and I hold my breath, hoping he didn’t tear it.
“It’s excellent, Angel,” he says, plopping down on his bed. I can’t help but join him.
Sitting so close, our heads bent over the same piece of paper, I can count every breath drawn through Bono’s lungs. He hasn’t spoken yet.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask.
“I’m waiting for you.” He sprawls out on the bed, horizontal, and I try to resist the urge to pet his body.
“What do you…” My throat catches. He’s beyond perfect.
“…want…”
It’s suddenly too much. I have to get away from him- why aren’t I leaving the room? My body is frozen while my mind says back off. I lean over him, trying to act casual.
His face is too irresistible.
The wanting I’ve held back since this afternoon floods over me, and I drop myself over his body, smashing my lips against his own. I’ve never kissed this man before… but he’s kissed me, in Bologna. I can almost taste him.
A feeling of horror runs through me, and I pull away. What have I done? Bono is married! “I’m so sorry-“ I begin.
“Hush,” he says, closing my lips with his fingers. “Don’t be sorry.” His eyes are wild, frightened- and eager. He wants me.
I cautiously kiss him again, and now I can’t stop. His hands latch around my back and push my shirt up. I can’t unlock my mouth from his for anything.
And I awaken.
I’m alone in my parents’ car, and it’s raining. The water washes over my windshield, and I straighten myself in my seat- the seatbelt is still buckled around my thin body- and turn the car on.
The first place to visit is down at the stadium. Even without entering I can tell no one is here. The band wouldn’t be working in this weather.
I speed back to the hotel, determined to meet Bono. Even if he’s not in love with me as I dreamed, we still need to go over that phone call. And I need to get tickets o the show for my parents.
After a few steps in the rain, I enter the building with my curls hanging bedraggled down my neck. The hotel lobby comforts me. In here it’s safe and warm. The receptionist from this morning recognizes me, and narrows her eyes. I can’t let her know I don’t belong here. Truly, I should just fess up to her, but I don’t want to. It’s risky- there’s no Eric to get me out of the situation now.
“Ma’am, can you come over here, please?” The receptionist’s eyes have zeroed in on me. I pretend not to notice, ignoring her.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” Her tone is steelier. “Can you come over here, please?” It’s no use disobeying, so I walk up to the desk.
“What is it?” I ask, playing the part of a startled, confused woman who entered the wrong hotel.
“Ma’am, can I have your name, please?” She’s recognized my voice from the phone call earlier this morning.
“It’s Marieke. Marieke Lang,” I say, knowing full well what she’s about to do.
“This hotel has no record of a Marieke Lang checking in during the past week,” the receptionist says.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I must have gotten lost…”
“You need to get out of this hotel. Who let you in?” the receptionist asks, finger on her walkie-talkie.
“I did,” a voice from behind me speaks up.
Both of us stare, shocked, and I turn around. Jack gazes unprotected into my eyes.
“She’s my friend. She works on tour with us. Give it a rest,” he tells the receptionist in Dutch.
The receptionist looks at me. “Do you know him?” she asks.
Yes, I do know Jack, and everything he said is true. However, the part about him letting me in is a lie. I haven’t seen him since I first left the stadium.
“I’m telling you, we know each other,” Jack says.
“Ma’am? Is this true?”
I find my voice. “Yes. We’re very close. I work for U2.”
“Why aren’t you rooming here?”
“If you haven’t noticed, I am Dutch,” I say. “My parents have a house here. That’s where I’m staying. Now, you don’t stop every suspicious looking person who walks through this hotel, do you? If I gave you proof of all my words, would you believe it?”
For effect, Jack slides his arm around my shoulder.
The receptionist has nothing to say. I can tell she wants to argue with me further, but is there a point? “Very well. Go off and hang out with your boyfriend.”
“Thank you,” Jack says, and lets go of me. “Come on, Marieke. I’ll take you to my room.” We enter the elevator.
Jack’s room is small and exactly the same as any hotel room I’ve ever stayed in, apart from several personal touches- Jack’s suitcase, shut up with some dirty clothes folded on top, and a book sitting on the bedside table with a green paperweight holding it open. Jack throws me a towel from the bathroom.
“You’re inexplicably wet,” he says. “Where’ve you been all this time?”
“I fell asleep on the side of the road,” I say, hugging the towel around my shoulders with a sigh. “I was inside the car,” I clarify as Jack raises his eyebrows.
“Well, that’s good,” he says. “How did you get so wet, though?” He sits on the bed, and I gratefully plunk down as well.
“The… rain…?”
“Oh, it was pouring that hard?” Jack shrugs. “I wouldn’t have known.” He stands and pulls the curtains back from the window, and we stare at a clear sky, slowly evaporating puddles.
“Well, it’s over now,” he says, and takes a seat next to me again.
“Woman, you really need a haircut.”
“It’s just from the rain,” I say.
“No- how long has it been since you went to the beauty shop?” Jack reaches out and dangles a strand of hair in my face to prove his point.
“So what do you want to do? Give me a makeover?”
“Oh, it could work,” Jack says.
We sit in silence for a bit. I think I’m all dry by now.
“Do you know Bono’s room number?”
“I do, but he’s not there. The whole band has gone out… or is it just Bono and Edge? I can’t remember…” Jack bangs his fist on his head in order to knock the memory loose.
“I need to see Bono about my speech. He still has the script.” So typical Bono! “He has to perform it tomorrow!”
“Oh, now I remember,” Jack continues, seemingly oblivious to my words. “The only band member who is still here is Adam. At least to the best of my knowledge. Larry went to explore Nijmegen, and Bono and Edge are at an interview.”
Oh. I’ve forgotten that there’s more to being a rock band than touring and selling records. They have to consult with the media, too. “When did they leave?” I ask.
“Roughly an hour from now- they left the stadium earlier,” Jack says. “It’s 16:45.”
“I hope Adam’s still here,” I mumble. “I’ve kidnapped a bass.” At once I start laughing, and Jack hesitantly joins in.
“Jack, is the show for tomorrow sold out?” I ask when I can speak.
He thinks. “Mmm, I’m not sure… you’ll have to ask someone else. Eric, maybe.” His eyes dart above my head. “You can stay with him until the band comes back.”
“Thanks,” I say, standing up. “Which room is he?”
“First floor, seventh on the left,” Jack answers. “See you!” I wave at him and exit.
Downstairs, I walk past the receptionist without another questioning. If she glares at me, maybe rolls her eyes or even smiles, I am immune to it. I walk past immaturity without even a glance in her direction, my back ramrod straight.
Eric answers to my knock, his eyes betraying surprise. “Oh, Marieke- what are you doing back here?”
“I’m in search of the band,” I say. “They’ve gone out, and I need to speak to Bono.” Eric lets me sashay in.
“Do you know if there are still tickets for tomorrow on sale?” I ask.
“Um… no, no, there aren’t any,” Eric replies, casting the door shut and walking the length of his room. “U2 must be popular in Holland.”
Thinking of how I’d flown out to Portugal to see the band live, I hypothesize that some of the audience consists of hardcore overseas fans like me.
“Did you want a seat in the audience?” Eric asks.
“No, it’s just that my parents need to see it,” I say. “I’m not to come home until I’ve found a way to take them to the show.”
“Then that’s a bummer,” says Eric. “You can never go home again.”
“Certainly there’s another way?” I ask. Maybe the band or crew or somebody will let me take them backstage.
“They could purchase passes for a meet-and-greet,” Eric starts doubtfully.
“Do you think if I ask one of the band members, he’ll let me take them backstage?”
“Um… possibly, for family of crew…” I get the feeling Eric hasn’t let his parents see him too often on tour.
“I’ll ask someone,” I say.
“You mean you’ll ask Bono?”
I have to turn my head from Eric. He keeps doing this to me- bringing up Bono’s name when we’re alone in order to watch my reactions. Does he want the secret to spread over the entire crew? Jack is a locked box- he can hold all kinds of valuables, secrets that no one but he has the key to- but Eric is somewhat of a blabbermouth. He’s so chattery, I’m afraid of what he could say on accident. And I swear to the nonexistent deity that he’s doing this on purpose.
“Yes,” I say, looking back at him. “He is hopefully the first person I’ll meet when I leave this room.”
“So stay a while,” Eric says, catching hold of my hand.
I yank my wrist free. “I wish you would stop doing that.”
“Doing what?” he asks, confused.
I exhale. “Eric. You really don’t know? The touching. The references to Bono. Stop embarrassing me! All the other crew members believe that we’re dating. I thought I could trust you with my secret, but you just want to make it clear that I like you, and yet you’re purposefully sticking Bono into the conversation to make me feel uncomfortable. You’re giving people the wrong impression!”
Eric bends his brow. “Well it’s hardly a secret. I wish you could see yourself when you stare at him. You act like you’re some kind of dog, the way you go out of your way to greet him every morning, how you practically drool when talking to him, the way you stare with those devoted eyes every night… Don’t you realize, he could step all over you and you’d take it as a way of expressing emotion? He’s got you on a leash, a woman who can’t move too far away from him without choking. You’ve got to get yourself together, or you could seriously pay for this behavior.”
I drop my eyes, cheeks burning. Something in Eric’s tone has upset me. I tell myself he’s just speaking out of bias and envy, and I don’t behave that obviously. In fact, I KNOW I’m not obvious in the least. I am a woman. I’ve gotten myself together already, and Eric just hasn’t received the memo.
“That really hurt, Eric,” I say. He tries to speak over me, but I hold him back with my eyes. “Stop it. Either cut out the crap about me and you, or keep quiet and never mention this again.”
Eric just blinks.
“I think I should go,” I whisper, and leave him hanging.
***
It takes a while, but I return home at 21:00, triumphant with news just as my parents are setting the table. Mom opens her arms, and I slide into them, and we fall on the sofa. I’ve come home empty-handed- well, excluding the bass- but I have a solution to the concert woes. “You and Dad are tripping backstage tomorrow night. We’re going to hang out with U2!”
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” she says, rubbing my shoulders. “I can’t wait to meet your friends.” Dad gives me a smile, and we sit down to eat.
Before completely starting in on my meal, I jump up and say, “May I be excused for a moment?” Both my parents nod. I dash upstairs and return with a plain white record, the title of the album being scrawled in pencil on the front. Zooropa.
“It’s time you got prepared,” I say. “This is the kind of music you might hear tomorrow.” I put it in our record player and smile to myself as the song I created fills the room. Mom looks a bit creeped out, and Dad is concentrating hard on his food. I know they’ve never taken too much to U2, but tomorrow they’ll be hearing over ten songs by them. They better enjoy it.
By the second song, Babyface- a song I’ve taken a liking to in light of recent events- they have started talking, and I have to join in. I don’t have to force them to pay attention to the music I so love.
Once the haunting euphoria of Lemon ends- “Just how long is this song?” Dad asks, glancing at the turntable- I do see a response from Mom to the music. As soon as Stay begins, the song I chose for a fifth track, Mom drops her fork. She quickly recovers and snatches it back up, eating with gusto, but her eyes are huge. I can tell she is really paying attention to the lyrics of the song and what they mean.
If I could stay, then the night would give you up
Stay, and the day would keep its trust
Stay with the demons you drowned
‘ Stay with the spirits I found
Stay and the night would be enough
“What’s this song called?” Mom asks.
“Stay,” I murmur. “Faraway, So Close.”
“I like it,” she tells me.
The next few songs fly by without any more recognition. We finish eating and I go in to wash the dishes, though I can’t hear the music from inside the kitchen. I figure Mom will be best left alone…
When Dad and I emerge she’s sitting on the couch, listening attentively to The First Time. We join her and engage in a soft family snuggle. Dirty Day comes on, and I think that will snap us from our peace. But no one speaks up, and so as The Wanderer starts we’re in bliss. Now Johnny Cash starts singing.
“Who is this…?” Dad asks.
“Johnny Cash,” I say, giggling a bit. “It’s a musical joke. Just bear with it.”
We relax again, and as the song ends I forget that the record is still spinning. None of us really takes notice. We must when the alarm sounds.
Mom is startled, and Dad looks worried. “Where’s that coming from?” he barks. I leap up and yank the needle off the record, and we keep a stark-silence.
“That,” I say, “is Zooropa.”
“That,” my mom says, “is better than Boy.” Which for her is saying a lot.
***
Two people fall into sleep that night, each with separate thoughts on his or her mind.
Marieke goes to bed thinking about her meeting with Bono over the phone call. She’d shoved her previous liebestraum to the very back of her mind and focused only on business- the writing angle she chose and what Bono thought of it. He’d praised her many times, but she had pretended not to notice.
I am a woman.
Bono falls asleep thinking about one thing- the concert tomorrow. He muses briefly on the prospect of Marieke’s parents joining her, and wonders if they’re anything like their daughter. He goes over the set in his mind, a calming action, and slips away into unconsciousness with one lyric prominent in his brain-
Where did it all go wrong?
Yep, Eric's very annoying in this. He's going to face karma soon, don't worry. Just wait a few chapters.
She's too lucky, in my opinion. 
Just not sure what qualifies as "angst" and what's just "bad stuff."
