BlueSilkenSky
Rock n' Roll Doggie VIP PASS
My time among you is almost at an end. The glory that is BlueSilkenSky must disapear and take her place with all her family members in Boston. Don't fear- for I won't be watching you, but I leave behind a chapter for all of you.
(Translation- I'm going on vacation and wanted to post a short one before I left!)
“Might I request something from you?”
Bono scoots away from me as I sit down next to him. “Good morning yourself.”
“I need to go to Rotterdam for a day or two, maybe more. Can you lend the Zoo Plane to me? I’ll only need to be dropped off and I’ll call when the visit is up.”
“This is the third time you’ve asked to leave the tour,” Bono says, drinking his coffee. “Can’t you make your mind up already?”
“One of my friends is in serious trouble, Bono,” I say. “She needs some support from me.” Not to mention that I need to find out what her trouble is. “Her behavior might lead to destruction.”
Bono pushes his mug away. “Well, I’m sorry to hear about that, but can’t you stay with us for London at least? You’ve got a job to do. You need to write.”
I pull back from my breakfast so I can stare into Bono’s fathomless ocean eyes. The gaze does nothing for helping me decide. As carefully as I can, I answer, “When’s the performance in London?”
“We’re booked for the eleventh,” Bono says, his tone casual and yet exuding a certain dominance.
“Then I don’t need to go with you yet. I have enough time to make a trip to Rotterdam and back . I’ll be ready for the show.”
“The tour plane might not agree to that,” Bono says slowly.
“I’ll get there, I promise. I’m already packed. Please, Bono, let me go.”
Bono leans back over his nonexistent drink. “I’m technically not the one to make decisions.”
“You’re right. I can control myself.”
What’s gotten into her? Ever since Marieke left Holland, she’s been more mature and less needy of anyone. Bono realizes she is self-sufficient and can make the trip if she wants. He has no reason in stopping her. But he wants her to stay, for whatever reason.
“Go talk to the pilot and see if he can make the trip.” Bono stares back at Marieke, winking. “Have fun, love.”
I leave the table with childish butterflies in my stomach from the wink, but focused on the task laid before me. I call Lina to let her know I’m coming, before breakfast is over.
“Hello, it’s me. I know you don’t want to see me or hear me talk to you, but we need to do just that. I know something is seriously wrong, and I want to help you. Leave a message. My number is…”
Now alone downstairs, Bono creeps over to Edge’s table, where he spies several friends, including Morleigh. Bono greets everyone and sits next to the dancer, obscuring the path of her eye from Edge.
“Are you ready for London?” Bono asks the general table, blinking at Morleigh. She stares at her breakfast. A few people respond positively.
“I can’t wait to get in the home stretch,” Edge says, his eyes on Bono’s eyes on Morleigh.
“Yeah… in a few days we’ll be in Dublin city!” Bono cheers. He directs his words towards the woman at his side. “Then… well, then it’s down under for us, and the tour’s wrapped up for good.”
“It’s a bit worrying, really,” Morleigh says, still watching her plate. She doesn’t respond when Bono “accidentally” brushes her skin as he scratches his ear.
“What’s the worry, love?” Bono asks, turning the smolder on. She’ll have to make eye contact now. Edge hasn’t reacted.
Morleigh does look up, stares at Bono for a span of a few seconds, and flicks her gaze onto The Edge. “What am I going to do with my time after this?”
“You could always stick around. Who knows, we might have a place to fit you in on the next tour.” Ever so suavely, Bono presses his leg against hers.
“Ahem… Bono…” Edge is flagging the singer down. He takes Bono aside. “Why are you flirting with her?”
“You don’t have a problem with it?” Bono is ready to gauge Edge’s reaction.
“No, surely not. But it could get over-the-top too quickly.”
Bono wants to tell Edge to trash the act. “I know what I’m doing. Morleigh is not reacting in any questionable way. Lay off.”
“It’s a bit sick of you,” Edge protests.
“What, with me being married and all? Or does it offend you more that I’m making moves on her specifically?”
Edge knows what Bono is driving at. He’s annoyed past a dangerous point, but is nearly bursting with wanting to explain himself. “I know, you think we’re together.”
“Are you?”
Edge exhales. “Not yet. I… I don’t even know if I really love her or not. It’s all so confusing.”
That line of thinking is all too familiar to Bono, almost unhealthily familiar. “Have you, have you done the deal yet? Have you done it?” Reading Edge’s expression, Bono quickly moves on- “Let’s start with the basics. Have you kissed her?”
“Only as much as you have,” Edge answers. “I don’t know if she loves me either. It’s so hard, having to fall in love all over again.”
Bono touches Edge’s shoulder and glances back at the breakfast table. “Morleigh isn’t going anywhere. You have enough time to wait. She’s a great friend.”
“Must be easy for you to say, Bono, you’ve had your love life cut out for you,” Edge comments. Bono says nothing, remembering Ali and their romance in high school. She’s the only one I’ll ever love.
The elevator in the nearby lobby opens its doors, letting out its sole passenger- Marieke. She has tied her short curls into a puff at the back of her head, and even as serious as she looks- probably worried about her friend- she still maintains a calm in her posture and stride that Bono can’t help but admire.
Edge follows Bono’s gaze. “She’s not… she’s not causing you any trouble with that, I hope?”
“With what?” Bono inquires, trying to rip his gaze off Marieke as she goes out the door.
“With your commitments, your life. She’s not interfering with your own ability to fall in love, is she?”
Bono drops his gaze. He wants to tell Edge what a messed-up place his mind is in with Marieke. He would even go as far as to tell him about his onstage longing for her. But is this a safe place to say it? The room is full of too many people who could overhear and misinterpret Bono’s words. Who knows how far the rumor that would spring from that could spread?
“Larry can have her,” Bono answers. “I. Don’t. Love. Her.”
Edge feels that Bono is just as confused on Marieke as he is on Morleigh. His eyes narrow. He knows that Bono loves Ali, and nothing could be allowed to come between them. “Watch it.”
As it turns out, the pilot I speak to claims he is not going to take me to Rotterdam. He gives me several fine reasons that do nothing to lift my soul, only burden it with anger. What if I arrive in Rotterdam at a time too late? My worry is frantically trying to spill over as I climb on the bus, but I keep my mouth shut.
We drive from Glasgow to London- a long trip. Eric sits with me on the bus. Jack is perceptibly happier than any other time I’ve seen him. This finding of Herman could be a beautiful start of a new chapter in Jack’s life- maybe he’ll feel more comfortable expressing his sexuality and face whatever his troubles are. Eric is as blissfully unaware as ever and overstays his welcome. I shove him off onto the next bus seat, trying to fall asleep. When I next open my eyes, maybe the world will be a better place and my anger will slack off.
“Marieke? Marieke, are you there? Please pick up, Marieke, you said you would speak to me… God, I miss you. Please answer the phone.” The message is observed by a lone cleaning man in the hotel room, who erases the answering machine for the next guest.
***
I sleep through my first day in London, thankful that I’ve eaten dinner on the bus. The next morning, August 10th, is one day before the first U2 concert in this city. I see now that maybe I couldn’t have flown to Rotterdam and been back in time for the show, but it’s not like Bono needs me that badly to write the MacPhisto script. As an act of defiance, I think nothing of writing today, instead hanging around Wembley Stadium to practice the bass with Stuart.
By now I can play three U2 basslines completely- With or Without You, New Year’s Day, and Where The Streets Have No Name. A few- Zoo Station, Bad, and Ultraviolet- I have in pieces, and the rest I’m still in the process of learning. Of course learning to play the bass guitar makes me want to learn every U2 song, but Stuart is sticking to the standard Zoo TV set. He calls me Adam’s second replacement, and declares, “I’m the expert, but if Adam and I both died the task would be all up to you.” I tell him not to speak so morbidly.
Today I work backstage on a soft version of Bad, cursing often when I screw up. The song reminds me of Lina. I wonder- how often has she been listening to U2 at home? Is the music therapeutic for her, or does it remind her of me and bug her out of her mind? I can see Lina going with either option. Why didn’t that pilot take me home?
I cradle the bass carefully and manage to make my way entirely through Bad for the first time. The victory is oddly sweet. My hands begin to move liquidly across the instrument, plucking out New Year’s Day by heart. I barely need to concentrate on my hands anymore, and start to sing unthinkingly.
“All is quiet on New Year’s Day…” My voice is too deep to come clearly, scratching the higher note on “quiet.” Maybe I’m a baritone. “A world in white gets underway…”
Bono is walking backstage, whistling a few bars of One to himself. He sees Marieke and the songs collide.
“I want to be with you, be with you-“ I cut off as Bono sings along, and stop playing. “That was frightening.”
“Poor little girl, did I sneak in on you when you weren’t ready?” Bono strokes the side of my bass. “Pretty instrument, this.”
“It is pretty,” I agree. “I still can’t sing with it.”
Bono scrutinizes me, his eyes thoughtful and clear. “Your voice isn’t quite good for U2 songs, but it might give Tracy Chapman some justice.”
“Who’s Tracy Chapman?” Bono guffaws. “I thought you’d say that. She’s an American artist, and her voice isn’t so different from yours- pretty deep.” And yours is off-key and a bit nasally, but no reason to go there. “If you want to be a showgirl, you could always play her music.”
I cross my arms. “Give me an example.”
Without any more prompting, Bono sings- “You gotta fast car, I want a ticket to anywhere, maybe we- what are you looking at me like that for?- make a deal, maybe together we can get some-“
“I’ve never heard you sing like that,” I laugh. “Never.”
Bono screws up his face. “It’s a woman’s part- I didn’t think I could manage.”
“You managed well enough,” I say, sliding my eyes downward. “What was that song you just sang?”
Bono thinks for a second. He could teach Marieke the song, or he could go back to planning for tomorrow. The band is set to debut a new song from Zooropa, and Bono needs to help out in a big way. All this, and there’s still a phone call to rehearse. Marieke needs to write it first, though…
“Tell you what, I’ll teach you the song, but only if you agree to perform it onstage tomorrow night.” He knows Marieke will back down. There’s no logical way to fit her into the set.
I rub the bass over and over, unsure. On the one hand, I can’t waste time in the band’s set or the opening act by singing a song I’ve only learned in one day- and accompanying myself on the bass guitar? That will look odd.
On the other hand, it sure is tempting for Bono to teach me a song I can actually sing. And- okay, I don’t want to admit it, but being onstage really isn’t all that bad. I remember my dance onstage in Turin, and how much I’d loved that.
“How about I perform it tonight?” I ask. “I could have my own little set to give the fans something to talk about before your concert.”
Bono hadn’t expected that response from Marieke, and is surprised. She really wants to perform, he realizes. She wants her lessons on the bass to add up to something.
“I’ll teach you the song after we finish rehearsing,” Bono tells Marieke. He grasps her hand. “We’re debuting Babyface tomorrow night- that will be a bit of a struggle.”
“I love Babyface!” I declare.
“Right, and you wouldn’t want the performance to be spoiled, now would you? Run along. I’ll be back to catch you. Oh, and how’s that phone call going?”
He’s touched the very thing I wish not to speak of. “I don’t want to write it today. I’m taking a break.”
“Not too long a break,” Bono jokes, secretly worried.
“I’ll have one ready by tomorrow.”
I watch the soundchecks of Babyface. It’s fascinating to see the band work out songs. Eric is in the stadium, so we listen together. I pluck a few strings on the bass. Morleigh walks past us for a second, sending me a smile. Finally the rehearsals are over.
“I’ll take this time to teach you Fast Car,” Bono says, swinging his way off the stage.
He is an excellent teacher. The words are hard to remember, especially with so many different verses, but I’ve memorized the entirety of Numb- I should speak for myself! I play a bassline that fits the song, not sure if it’ll fit into the piece. Bono tells me it’s a purely acoustic song, which leaves me unclear on that part.
And damn it, he’s right about my singing range. Fast Car is a perfect song for me. I ask Bono if he knows what vocal part I would be. He suggests alto. I shake my head, guessing at least contralto. Bono claims to have no experience on that part.
“I’m betting,” Eric says as we walk away from the stadium, “that you’re going to balk onstage.”
“Hm?”
“You’re not going to do this, right? I’m sure Bono thinks it was a joke. You don’t have to follow through to please him.”
“I’m betting,” I says smoothly, “that he is not joking, and I’ll hold my ground when I perform.” Hell, there won’t even be a live audience of over a hundred…
“I’m betting you won’t even perform, or they won’t let you.”
I face him. “You’re on.”
When night swoops in on a black wing, I walk down to the stadium, the breeze playing with my hair. I don’t know where Bono is, but if he doesn’t arrive I’ll perform anyway just to show Eric what for.
I climb onstage and request a bass for myself. Eric is instructed by me to stay in the audience pit. Someone asks me what I’m doing here, and I answer that I have a bet and I’m keeping my half of it. Eric is not impressed. This isn’t the full story. Now that I’m onstage, he wants to see if I can pull it off.
Just as Stuart gives me a bass- “Don’t plug it in unless you have to”- I spy a figure moving about in blackness, out at the edge of the stadium in the seats. I recognize the shape of his body as being Bono. Great, he’s testing the microphone’s sound while also listening to me. Knowing that he’s here makes this performance worthwhile.
Tucking a loose curl behind my ear, I turn my head to the microphone. My hands strum the bass, using its limited range to strengthen my voice.
“You gotta fast car… I want a ticket to anywhere. Maybe we make a deal… maybe together we can get somewhere. Anyplace is better. Starting from zero, got nothing to lose… maybe we’ll make something. Me, myself, I got nothing to prove.”
My voice is amplified and booms throughout the stadium, startling me at first. But my hands on the bass, plucking out practicality, steady my voice and calm me to sing the next verses.
“You gotta fast car, I gotta plan to get us out of here. I been working at the convenience store… managed to save just a little bit of money. We won’t have to drive too far, just across the border and into the city. You and I can both get jobs and finally see what it means to be living!”
I see the entire story fold out in my head. My voice soars, calling for the man I love to take me away in no more than a whisper.
“See, my old man’s got a problem… he lives with the bottle, that’s the way it is. He says his body’s too old for working- his body’s too young to looking like his! My momma went off and left him; wanted more from life than he could give. I said, somebody’s got to take care of him. So I quit school and that’s what I did…”
Take a look at me now, Eric. “You gotta fast car, but is it fast enough so we can fly away? We gotta make a decision- leave tonight or live and die this way.” I would be holding my hand over my heart if it wasn’t on the bass guitar. Time for the real test- the higher notes. Hopefully my range will support it.
“Say, remember when we were driving, driving in your car? Speed so fast I felt like I was drunk… city lights laid out before us and your arm felt nice wrapped round my shoulder, and I-“ My voice scratches a bit in my throat. “Had a feeling that I belonged… I had a feeling I could be someone. Be someone. Be someone…”
As I start the next verse, disaster strikes. While lost in the song, my hand slips a bit and, for no reason I can explain, the string my fingers are resting on snaps. I gasp, then sidestep, trying to continue the improvised bassline with the loss of one string. It’s impossible now, so I give up and clutch both hands around the microphone, singing a cappella.
“You gotta fast car, and we go driving to entertain ourselves. You still ain’t got a job, and I work in the market as a checkout girl. I know things will get better… you’ll find work and I’ll get promoted. And we’ll move out of the shelter- buy a bigger house and live in the suburbs.”
God, this song is long. I count out the time in my head, and open my mouth to sing the chorus again. As it ends, I suddenly realize that I have no idea what the next line is. Yeah, Bono’s a good teacher indeed.
“You gotta…. Fast car, is it fast enough so you can fly away? You gotta make a decision- leave tonight or live and die this way.” I slowly crank my eyes open to see how the song was received.
All the crewmen who are watching burst into applause. Eric claps with a stunned look on his face. The figure in blackness, Bono, runs down from the seats to congratulate me.
His first words are, “Well, the microphones seem to work okay…”
I roll my eyes. “Really?”
His arms envelope me. “It was beautiful, Marieke. Beautiful.” I wonder what his reaction was, all the way out in the stadium seats. Did I sound any different with the distance?
“Nice going with the string mishap,” Bono notes, pulling back.
“I couldn’t remember all the words.”
“Just thank God you weren’t performing for millions, eh?” My thoughts exactly!
I face a subdued Eric. “Do I get any money?”
“Yeah, right,” he snickers.
That’s fine with me. At least now I know that I can sing, and if all else fails I can always stand in for a bassist in a band.
***
That following day I meet Bono in a spare stretch of time. We go for coffee, although the beverage is not my favorite. I pull out some paper and a pencil and ask the first question- “Who are we calling?” It’s time to get cracking. Maybe I can make the fight out to Rotterdam once we leave London.
Bono scratches his chin. “I’ve got a few people in mind… but the one that won’t go away, the one that just won’t leave my brain, is Salman Rushdie.” He produces a book from under the table, tapping the title in my face. The Satanic Verses, by Salman Rushdie.
“I’ve heard of that book,” I say. “Is it good?”
“Absolutely,” Bono tells me. “He lives here in Britain, you know… he’s in hiding here with government protection. It would be splendid calling him!”
“Is the phone number easy to obtain?” I ask. “I mean, if he’s in hiding, you won’t get the number through persuasion.”
Bono flashes me his winning smile. “Considering who I am, Angel, do you think they wouldn’t give me that number?”
Even though smiles do say a thousand words, I am not completely convinced.
“Just tell me for real- how do you get those numbers?”
“It’s not that difficult,” Bono says, beating around the bush.
“Cut it out and tell me.”
“Bossy, bossy,” Bono admonishes me, flicking one of my curls. “It’s a simple combination, Angel. All you have to do is know the right people, use the magic word, and ask.”
I can’t help snorting with suppressed laughter. “All right, all right. Now where were we- Salman Rushdie?”
“Yes. You do the writing and I’ll get the number. Don’t worry. This will work out fine!” Bono turns around in his seat and scans the area behind him, laughing. At least he’s in good spirits. Unfortunately, I have to do all the work…
“Just give me more information on him and I’ll make use of it.”
“Here, you can have the book too.” He hands it over. I make note of it and write.
After a bit, I glance up from my reading and revision to find that Bono is no longer with me. Maybe he’s just in the bathroom, but it sure feels like a rude abandonment. I gaze at the book in my hands, open it, and continue reading. How one person can get a death sentence for spinning a great yarn, I’ll never know. Isn’t this the 20th century?
“Interesting read?” someone’s voice booms in my ear.
“Where did you go?” I ask Bono.
“Nowhere far. Are you ready for the speech yet?”
I give it to him. “Just read.”
***
“She’s gonna dream of the world she wants to live in… she’s gonna dream out loud.” Bono smiles as the fans cheer, ending the song on its proper positive note.
Zooropa is a hard song to master live. Though the audience responds well to it, there’s still a material missing in the ingredients- maybe it’s the skip from Babble straight into Zooropa, or maybe it’s the lack of instruments to reproduce the multilayered sound achieved in the studio. Bono would gladly start the song in its normal place if he didn’t know the fans would become bored- the nonsense words, the discordant piano, and Bono’s undersinging of “Zooropa…” It’s not enough to hold a person’s attention, even if they do know and love the song. Bono suspects the band is going to retire the song pretty soon.
Babyface is pulled off well. The only problem is Bono’s singing. The song is in a higher range than usual, and Bono has to strain to hit the notes. He remembers the Joshua Tree Tour and how Red Hill Mining Town had died a slow death because of his inability to sing it. Goodbye, Babyface.
I attend to MacPhisto as he gets ready for showtime. Once Bono’s identity is taken, the Devil replacement is impossible to settle down. He lurches around backstage, thrilled to be in London again. I wonder how MacPhisto’s accent compares to the true British people in the audience, and hope he’s in his element. U2 performs Desire, and MacPhisto is on fire.
“Zooropa! Zoooorrropa! Myyy Zooropa!”
Now it’s time for him to make a bit of small talk with the crowd. MacPhisto swaggers up to the microphone, humming “Those were the days, my friend, I thought they’d never end… la la-la laaaa… da daaa, da daaaa, da daaa…”
He sighs pensively. “It’s not the same, is it? No… Don’t you miss the good old days?” A few fans in the audience shout “No” and I would be right there with them if I could. “The Raj, the Empire!” MacPhisto continues, naming Indian-sounding places. “Don’t you miss the good old days? No talking back from Paddies or Pakis, no!” The crowd cheers. I mentally thank them for liking what I’ve written.
And thank you, Bono, for giving me the idea. The speech would be much poorer if it weren’t for him.
“What’s all the fuss…” MacPhisto says in a dismal tone. I focus all sights on the stage and try to forget everything but how much I love him.
“Salman Rushdie, he can’t be English, can he? Shall I give him a telephone call?” The introduction of MacPhisto’s goal could have been a bit stronger… I add that to my short list of woes about this script. However, the crowd cheers- “Yeah!”
On cue, MacPhisto moves backwards to take up the phone. “He’s been taking my name in vain,” he tells the audience, using my kind of humor. “Yes, all that bullshit about freedom of speech… ha-ha. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” He shakes his head, unable to express how silly the whole affair is. “I sent him into this- I sent him into exile…” MacPhisto perches his fingers over the buttons. “But I do have his number… let me see.” He dials, murmuring something so quietly that my ears can barely pick it up- “Although I’m not sure this is gonna work…”
What phone number has he got, I wonder? Maybe he won’t contact anyone, although I have written a few words as a conversation starter in case he does reach Salman. That alternative is slim, however. No worries- it wouldn’t be the first time we haven’t gotten a good connection.
“Mm. Ta da, da-da daaa…” MacPhisto sings, half to calm himself and half to calm the crowd.
“Hello?” a man answers on the other line after a few seconds.
“Hello, could I speak to Salman Rushdie? The name’s MacPhisto,” MacPhisto says with a wearied air.
“Yeah,” the man responds slowly, “this is Salman Rushdie speaking.”
Hm! So we won’t need to improvise tonight after all! Frankly I’m shocked we’ve contacted him, and I pray my words won’t sound inadequate. MacPhisto can always change them as he goes along, of course.
“Ah!” MacPhisto cheers his success. “Salman Rushdie, it’s been a long time. Tell me, how miserable are you these days?”
“Actually, I’m very well,” Salman responds, sounding like it. “And in fact I’m quite happy too, thank you very much.”
“Do you get… out and about these days?” MacPhisto questions, giggling under his breath like the Devil he is. The crowd also laughs, taking advantage.
“Oh yes, now and again,” Salman says off-handedly. “I’ve got to be careful, of course- I’ve got even more trouble with the critics than you do!” Taking into account who he’s really speaking to, I wholeheartedly approve of this joke, and laugh. MacPhisto seems to hear my cackling backstage through the crowd noise, and looks put out.
“Mm… maybe not,” he grunts. “Well, let me see, I don’t want to make you too jealous, because we’re having an absolutely fabulous evening here at Wembley Stadium!” I cover my ears, anticipating the humongous cheer rising up from the depths of the U2 fans.
Salman apparently isn’t jealous at all. “Yes, I know that, because I’m here too!” My entire body focuses on two words- What the? He… he can’t be telling the truth.
MacPhisto turns towards the audience, raising his eyebrows to the sky. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m much closer to you than you could ever imagine,” Salman brags. “In fact I can see you now! You’re wearing a ridiculous gold suit and you’re standing in front of 50,000 of the loudest people I’ve ever heard in my life!”
The loud people take that as another opportunity to blast our eardrums, while MacPhisto gazes suspiciously into the audience, searching.
“Ah… I suppose that’s you with the blond wig over there, is it, Salman?” MacPhisto finally decides. His voice is a bit dejected. “Well, I don’t know what to say to you, I’m so- are you not afraid? Come out if you’re not afraid,” he taunts the author. “Salman Rushdie, I don’t believe you’re here. No chance… Salman Rushdie, no chance…” The quiet challenge lies onstage- an offering for Salman to surrender himself to the crowd. All eyes- at least mine and Eric’s- are on the stage, watching closely to see if he follows through.
And lo and behold, he does. At first my heart nearly stops, and then I’m pumping my hands in the air, cheering with the audience as Salman walks onstage, casually strolling up from the underground without even a backward glance. He’s smiling nervously- an honor and a danger, to be on the Zoo stage at this time.
My focus instantly turns to MacPhisto and the rest of his band. Adam, Larry, and Edge wear matching stunned expressions. MacPhisto is completely taken aback, and murmurs dazedly “Oh my God.” This is the only time I’ve heard him swear like that, and suppose it’s Bono breaking through beneath.
“I… oh my God,” he breathes as Salman finishes his walk to end up at MacPhisto’s side. “I think you might need these, Salman!” And he sweeps the red horns off his head and offers them to Salman with a flourish.
The author laughs. “I’m not afraid…”
“Of real devils?” MacPhisto asks in a low voice, stepping back.
“…and I’m not afraid of YOU!” Salman finishes, but he’s smiling. The crowd whistles, and MacPhisto makes a surprising gesture. He bends on one knee and kisses Salman’s hand before rising and throwing one arm around his shoulders.
Salman is laughing again. “Real devils don’t wear horns,” he tells MacPhisto, who is still holding his own horns in his hand. He shrugs and smiles, whispering something in the author’s ear, and declares for the benefit of the crowd, “Salman Rushdie, ladies and gentlemen, I bow to the superior man!” That superior man looks overjoyed, and hugs MacPhisto. In their moment of embrace, MacPhisto tosses the horns backstage, winking at me. I roll my eyes happily at him.
Amidst the applause of the crowd, Salman backs away. “Thank you, I gotta dash! Must disappear, gotta run!” He waves shyly before departing. I hope for the life of me that he ends up backstage and safe.
After all this it seems almost rude to continue the show, but U2 do and break into Ultraviolet. MacPhisto sings with a happier passion, reassuring me in the heartbreaking set. He’s got something to look forward to tonight
I race backstage to catch up with Bono, excited to share my points of interest with him. I’m ready to discuss what happened tonight and go out for a celebration. Strangely, Bono’s door is closed and no one answers when I knock. I pull Edge aside as he walks through the corridor and ask what’s going on.
Edge laughs, completely relaxed. “Oh, Bono’s in there, all right, but he’s not coming out yet. You can guess who’s the guest of honor.”
“Salman’s still here?” I ask.
“It appears so, and Bono isn’t going to let that opportunity pass him by! He’s read all of his books.” The Edge laughs at himself. “All four of them, I mean. Come on out with us- that was an exciting incident, wasn’t it? And you wrote the script by yourself…” We depart arm in arm.
The next night- our second night in London- is nowhere near as eventful, but there are plenty of great performances all around. Zooropa, for instance, is played well, bringing me to the highest point of happiness. As I head to Bono’s dressing room to congratulate him, a man bumps into me while coming down the opposite way.
“Oh, sorry! Didn’t see you there, in the dark.” Salman’s chuckle drifts by my ears as he heads towards the dressing rooms, a backstage pass in one hand. I start to smile. Even my worries about Lina don’t seem so bad.
(Translation- I'm going on vacation and wanted to post a short one before I left!)
“Might I request something from you?”
Bono scoots away from me as I sit down next to him. “Good morning yourself.”
“I need to go to Rotterdam for a day or two, maybe more. Can you lend the Zoo Plane to me? I’ll only need to be dropped off and I’ll call when the visit is up.”
“This is the third time you’ve asked to leave the tour,” Bono says, drinking his coffee. “Can’t you make your mind up already?”
“One of my friends is in serious trouble, Bono,” I say. “She needs some support from me.” Not to mention that I need to find out what her trouble is. “Her behavior might lead to destruction.”
Bono pushes his mug away. “Well, I’m sorry to hear about that, but can’t you stay with us for London at least? You’ve got a job to do. You need to write.”
I pull back from my breakfast so I can stare into Bono’s fathomless ocean eyes. The gaze does nothing for helping me decide. As carefully as I can, I answer, “When’s the performance in London?”
“We’re booked for the eleventh,” Bono says, his tone casual and yet exuding a certain dominance.
“Then I don’t need to go with you yet. I have enough time to make a trip to Rotterdam and back . I’ll be ready for the show.”
“The tour plane might not agree to that,” Bono says slowly.
“I’ll get there, I promise. I’m already packed. Please, Bono, let me go.”
Bono leans back over his nonexistent drink. “I’m technically not the one to make decisions.”
“You’re right. I can control myself.”
What’s gotten into her? Ever since Marieke left Holland, she’s been more mature and less needy of anyone. Bono realizes she is self-sufficient and can make the trip if she wants. He has no reason in stopping her. But he wants her to stay, for whatever reason.
“Go talk to the pilot and see if he can make the trip.” Bono stares back at Marieke, winking. “Have fun, love.”
I leave the table with childish butterflies in my stomach from the wink, but focused on the task laid before me. I call Lina to let her know I’m coming, before breakfast is over.
“Hello, it’s me. I know you don’t want to see me or hear me talk to you, but we need to do just that. I know something is seriously wrong, and I want to help you. Leave a message. My number is…”
Now alone downstairs, Bono creeps over to Edge’s table, where he spies several friends, including Morleigh. Bono greets everyone and sits next to the dancer, obscuring the path of her eye from Edge.
“Are you ready for London?” Bono asks the general table, blinking at Morleigh. She stares at her breakfast. A few people respond positively.
“I can’t wait to get in the home stretch,” Edge says, his eyes on Bono’s eyes on Morleigh.
“Yeah… in a few days we’ll be in Dublin city!” Bono cheers. He directs his words towards the woman at his side. “Then… well, then it’s down under for us, and the tour’s wrapped up for good.”
“It’s a bit worrying, really,” Morleigh says, still watching her plate. She doesn’t respond when Bono “accidentally” brushes her skin as he scratches his ear.
“What’s the worry, love?” Bono asks, turning the smolder on. She’ll have to make eye contact now. Edge hasn’t reacted.
Morleigh does look up, stares at Bono for a span of a few seconds, and flicks her gaze onto The Edge. “What am I going to do with my time after this?”
“You could always stick around. Who knows, we might have a place to fit you in on the next tour.” Ever so suavely, Bono presses his leg against hers.
“Ahem… Bono…” Edge is flagging the singer down. He takes Bono aside. “Why are you flirting with her?”
“You don’t have a problem with it?” Bono is ready to gauge Edge’s reaction.
“No, surely not. But it could get over-the-top too quickly.”
Bono wants to tell Edge to trash the act. “I know what I’m doing. Morleigh is not reacting in any questionable way. Lay off.”
“It’s a bit sick of you,” Edge protests.
“What, with me being married and all? Or does it offend you more that I’m making moves on her specifically?”
Edge knows what Bono is driving at. He’s annoyed past a dangerous point, but is nearly bursting with wanting to explain himself. “I know, you think we’re together.”
“Are you?”
Edge exhales. “Not yet. I… I don’t even know if I really love her or not. It’s all so confusing.”
That line of thinking is all too familiar to Bono, almost unhealthily familiar. “Have you, have you done the deal yet? Have you done it?” Reading Edge’s expression, Bono quickly moves on- “Let’s start with the basics. Have you kissed her?”
“Only as much as you have,” Edge answers. “I don’t know if she loves me either. It’s so hard, having to fall in love all over again.”
Bono touches Edge’s shoulder and glances back at the breakfast table. “Morleigh isn’t going anywhere. You have enough time to wait. She’s a great friend.”
“Must be easy for you to say, Bono, you’ve had your love life cut out for you,” Edge comments. Bono says nothing, remembering Ali and their romance in high school. She’s the only one I’ll ever love.
The elevator in the nearby lobby opens its doors, letting out its sole passenger- Marieke. She has tied her short curls into a puff at the back of her head, and even as serious as she looks- probably worried about her friend- she still maintains a calm in her posture and stride that Bono can’t help but admire.
Edge follows Bono’s gaze. “She’s not… she’s not causing you any trouble with that, I hope?”
“With what?” Bono inquires, trying to rip his gaze off Marieke as she goes out the door.
“With your commitments, your life. She’s not interfering with your own ability to fall in love, is she?”
Bono drops his gaze. He wants to tell Edge what a messed-up place his mind is in with Marieke. He would even go as far as to tell him about his onstage longing for her. But is this a safe place to say it? The room is full of too many people who could overhear and misinterpret Bono’s words. Who knows how far the rumor that would spring from that could spread?
“Larry can have her,” Bono answers. “I. Don’t. Love. Her.”
Edge feels that Bono is just as confused on Marieke as he is on Morleigh. His eyes narrow. He knows that Bono loves Ali, and nothing could be allowed to come between them. “Watch it.”
As it turns out, the pilot I speak to claims he is not going to take me to Rotterdam. He gives me several fine reasons that do nothing to lift my soul, only burden it with anger. What if I arrive in Rotterdam at a time too late? My worry is frantically trying to spill over as I climb on the bus, but I keep my mouth shut.
We drive from Glasgow to London- a long trip. Eric sits with me on the bus. Jack is perceptibly happier than any other time I’ve seen him. This finding of Herman could be a beautiful start of a new chapter in Jack’s life- maybe he’ll feel more comfortable expressing his sexuality and face whatever his troubles are. Eric is as blissfully unaware as ever and overstays his welcome. I shove him off onto the next bus seat, trying to fall asleep. When I next open my eyes, maybe the world will be a better place and my anger will slack off.
“Marieke? Marieke, are you there? Please pick up, Marieke, you said you would speak to me… God, I miss you. Please answer the phone.” The message is observed by a lone cleaning man in the hotel room, who erases the answering machine for the next guest.
***
I sleep through my first day in London, thankful that I’ve eaten dinner on the bus. The next morning, August 10th, is one day before the first U2 concert in this city. I see now that maybe I couldn’t have flown to Rotterdam and been back in time for the show, but it’s not like Bono needs me that badly to write the MacPhisto script. As an act of defiance, I think nothing of writing today, instead hanging around Wembley Stadium to practice the bass with Stuart.
By now I can play three U2 basslines completely- With or Without You, New Year’s Day, and Where The Streets Have No Name. A few- Zoo Station, Bad, and Ultraviolet- I have in pieces, and the rest I’m still in the process of learning. Of course learning to play the bass guitar makes me want to learn every U2 song, but Stuart is sticking to the standard Zoo TV set. He calls me Adam’s second replacement, and declares, “I’m the expert, but if Adam and I both died the task would be all up to you.” I tell him not to speak so morbidly.
Today I work backstage on a soft version of Bad, cursing often when I screw up. The song reminds me of Lina. I wonder- how often has she been listening to U2 at home? Is the music therapeutic for her, or does it remind her of me and bug her out of her mind? I can see Lina going with either option. Why didn’t that pilot take me home?
I cradle the bass carefully and manage to make my way entirely through Bad for the first time. The victory is oddly sweet. My hands begin to move liquidly across the instrument, plucking out New Year’s Day by heart. I barely need to concentrate on my hands anymore, and start to sing unthinkingly.
“All is quiet on New Year’s Day…” My voice is too deep to come clearly, scratching the higher note on “quiet.” Maybe I’m a baritone. “A world in white gets underway…”
Bono is walking backstage, whistling a few bars of One to himself. He sees Marieke and the songs collide.
“I want to be with you, be with you-“ I cut off as Bono sings along, and stop playing. “That was frightening.”
“Poor little girl, did I sneak in on you when you weren’t ready?” Bono strokes the side of my bass. “Pretty instrument, this.”
“It is pretty,” I agree. “I still can’t sing with it.”
Bono scrutinizes me, his eyes thoughtful and clear. “Your voice isn’t quite good for U2 songs, but it might give Tracy Chapman some justice.”
“Who’s Tracy Chapman?” Bono guffaws. “I thought you’d say that. She’s an American artist, and her voice isn’t so different from yours- pretty deep.” And yours is off-key and a bit nasally, but no reason to go there. “If you want to be a showgirl, you could always play her music.”
I cross my arms. “Give me an example.”
Without any more prompting, Bono sings- “You gotta fast car, I want a ticket to anywhere, maybe we- what are you looking at me like that for?- make a deal, maybe together we can get some-“
“I’ve never heard you sing like that,” I laugh. “Never.”
Bono screws up his face. “It’s a woman’s part- I didn’t think I could manage.”
“You managed well enough,” I say, sliding my eyes downward. “What was that song you just sang?”
Bono thinks for a second. He could teach Marieke the song, or he could go back to planning for tomorrow. The band is set to debut a new song from Zooropa, and Bono needs to help out in a big way. All this, and there’s still a phone call to rehearse. Marieke needs to write it first, though…
“Tell you what, I’ll teach you the song, but only if you agree to perform it onstage tomorrow night.” He knows Marieke will back down. There’s no logical way to fit her into the set.
I rub the bass over and over, unsure. On the one hand, I can’t waste time in the band’s set or the opening act by singing a song I’ve only learned in one day- and accompanying myself on the bass guitar? That will look odd.
On the other hand, it sure is tempting for Bono to teach me a song I can actually sing. And- okay, I don’t want to admit it, but being onstage really isn’t all that bad. I remember my dance onstage in Turin, and how much I’d loved that.
“How about I perform it tonight?” I ask. “I could have my own little set to give the fans something to talk about before your concert.”
Bono hadn’t expected that response from Marieke, and is surprised. She really wants to perform, he realizes. She wants her lessons on the bass to add up to something.
“I’ll teach you the song after we finish rehearsing,” Bono tells Marieke. He grasps her hand. “We’re debuting Babyface tomorrow night- that will be a bit of a struggle.”
“I love Babyface!” I declare.
“Right, and you wouldn’t want the performance to be spoiled, now would you? Run along. I’ll be back to catch you. Oh, and how’s that phone call going?”
He’s touched the very thing I wish not to speak of. “I don’t want to write it today. I’m taking a break.”
“Not too long a break,” Bono jokes, secretly worried.
“I’ll have one ready by tomorrow.”
I watch the soundchecks of Babyface. It’s fascinating to see the band work out songs. Eric is in the stadium, so we listen together. I pluck a few strings on the bass. Morleigh walks past us for a second, sending me a smile. Finally the rehearsals are over.
“I’ll take this time to teach you Fast Car,” Bono says, swinging his way off the stage.
He is an excellent teacher. The words are hard to remember, especially with so many different verses, but I’ve memorized the entirety of Numb- I should speak for myself! I play a bassline that fits the song, not sure if it’ll fit into the piece. Bono tells me it’s a purely acoustic song, which leaves me unclear on that part.
And damn it, he’s right about my singing range. Fast Car is a perfect song for me. I ask Bono if he knows what vocal part I would be. He suggests alto. I shake my head, guessing at least contralto. Bono claims to have no experience on that part.
“I’m betting,” Eric says as we walk away from the stadium, “that you’re going to balk onstage.”
“Hm?”
“You’re not going to do this, right? I’m sure Bono thinks it was a joke. You don’t have to follow through to please him.”
“I’m betting,” I says smoothly, “that he is not joking, and I’ll hold my ground when I perform.” Hell, there won’t even be a live audience of over a hundred…
“I’m betting you won’t even perform, or they won’t let you.”
I face him. “You’re on.”
When night swoops in on a black wing, I walk down to the stadium, the breeze playing with my hair. I don’t know where Bono is, but if he doesn’t arrive I’ll perform anyway just to show Eric what for.
I climb onstage and request a bass for myself. Eric is instructed by me to stay in the audience pit. Someone asks me what I’m doing here, and I answer that I have a bet and I’m keeping my half of it. Eric is not impressed. This isn’t the full story. Now that I’m onstage, he wants to see if I can pull it off.
Just as Stuart gives me a bass- “Don’t plug it in unless you have to”- I spy a figure moving about in blackness, out at the edge of the stadium in the seats. I recognize the shape of his body as being Bono. Great, he’s testing the microphone’s sound while also listening to me. Knowing that he’s here makes this performance worthwhile.
Tucking a loose curl behind my ear, I turn my head to the microphone. My hands strum the bass, using its limited range to strengthen my voice.
“You gotta fast car… I want a ticket to anywhere. Maybe we make a deal… maybe together we can get somewhere. Anyplace is better. Starting from zero, got nothing to lose… maybe we’ll make something. Me, myself, I got nothing to prove.”
My voice is amplified and booms throughout the stadium, startling me at first. But my hands on the bass, plucking out practicality, steady my voice and calm me to sing the next verses.
“You gotta fast car, I gotta plan to get us out of here. I been working at the convenience store… managed to save just a little bit of money. We won’t have to drive too far, just across the border and into the city. You and I can both get jobs and finally see what it means to be living!”
I see the entire story fold out in my head. My voice soars, calling for the man I love to take me away in no more than a whisper.
“See, my old man’s got a problem… he lives with the bottle, that’s the way it is. He says his body’s too old for working- his body’s too young to looking like his! My momma went off and left him; wanted more from life than he could give. I said, somebody’s got to take care of him. So I quit school and that’s what I did…”
Take a look at me now, Eric. “You gotta fast car, but is it fast enough so we can fly away? We gotta make a decision- leave tonight or live and die this way.” I would be holding my hand over my heart if it wasn’t on the bass guitar. Time for the real test- the higher notes. Hopefully my range will support it.
“Say, remember when we were driving, driving in your car? Speed so fast I felt like I was drunk… city lights laid out before us and your arm felt nice wrapped round my shoulder, and I-“ My voice scratches a bit in my throat. “Had a feeling that I belonged… I had a feeling I could be someone. Be someone. Be someone…”
As I start the next verse, disaster strikes. While lost in the song, my hand slips a bit and, for no reason I can explain, the string my fingers are resting on snaps. I gasp, then sidestep, trying to continue the improvised bassline with the loss of one string. It’s impossible now, so I give up and clutch both hands around the microphone, singing a cappella.
“You gotta fast car, and we go driving to entertain ourselves. You still ain’t got a job, and I work in the market as a checkout girl. I know things will get better… you’ll find work and I’ll get promoted. And we’ll move out of the shelter- buy a bigger house and live in the suburbs.”
God, this song is long. I count out the time in my head, and open my mouth to sing the chorus again. As it ends, I suddenly realize that I have no idea what the next line is. Yeah, Bono’s a good teacher indeed.
“You gotta…. Fast car, is it fast enough so you can fly away? You gotta make a decision- leave tonight or live and die this way.” I slowly crank my eyes open to see how the song was received.
All the crewmen who are watching burst into applause. Eric claps with a stunned look on his face. The figure in blackness, Bono, runs down from the seats to congratulate me.
His first words are, “Well, the microphones seem to work okay…”
I roll my eyes. “Really?”
His arms envelope me. “It was beautiful, Marieke. Beautiful.” I wonder what his reaction was, all the way out in the stadium seats. Did I sound any different with the distance?
“Nice going with the string mishap,” Bono notes, pulling back.
“I couldn’t remember all the words.”
“Just thank God you weren’t performing for millions, eh?” My thoughts exactly!
I face a subdued Eric. “Do I get any money?”
“Yeah, right,” he snickers.
That’s fine with me. At least now I know that I can sing, and if all else fails I can always stand in for a bassist in a band.
***
That following day I meet Bono in a spare stretch of time. We go for coffee, although the beverage is not my favorite. I pull out some paper and a pencil and ask the first question- “Who are we calling?” It’s time to get cracking. Maybe I can make the fight out to Rotterdam once we leave London.
Bono scratches his chin. “I’ve got a few people in mind… but the one that won’t go away, the one that just won’t leave my brain, is Salman Rushdie.” He produces a book from under the table, tapping the title in my face. The Satanic Verses, by Salman Rushdie.
“I’ve heard of that book,” I say. “Is it good?”
“Absolutely,” Bono tells me. “He lives here in Britain, you know… he’s in hiding here with government protection. It would be splendid calling him!”
“Is the phone number easy to obtain?” I ask. “I mean, if he’s in hiding, you won’t get the number through persuasion.”
Bono flashes me his winning smile. “Considering who I am, Angel, do you think they wouldn’t give me that number?”
Even though smiles do say a thousand words, I am not completely convinced.
“Just tell me for real- how do you get those numbers?”
“It’s not that difficult,” Bono says, beating around the bush.
“Cut it out and tell me.”
“Bossy, bossy,” Bono admonishes me, flicking one of my curls. “It’s a simple combination, Angel. All you have to do is know the right people, use the magic word, and ask.”
I can’t help snorting with suppressed laughter. “All right, all right. Now where were we- Salman Rushdie?”
“Yes. You do the writing and I’ll get the number. Don’t worry. This will work out fine!” Bono turns around in his seat and scans the area behind him, laughing. At least he’s in good spirits. Unfortunately, I have to do all the work…
“Just give me more information on him and I’ll make use of it.”
“Here, you can have the book too.” He hands it over. I make note of it and write.
After a bit, I glance up from my reading and revision to find that Bono is no longer with me. Maybe he’s just in the bathroom, but it sure feels like a rude abandonment. I gaze at the book in my hands, open it, and continue reading. How one person can get a death sentence for spinning a great yarn, I’ll never know. Isn’t this the 20th century?
“Interesting read?” someone’s voice booms in my ear.
“Where did you go?” I ask Bono.
“Nowhere far. Are you ready for the speech yet?”
I give it to him. “Just read.”
***
“She’s gonna dream of the world she wants to live in… she’s gonna dream out loud.” Bono smiles as the fans cheer, ending the song on its proper positive note.
Zooropa is a hard song to master live. Though the audience responds well to it, there’s still a material missing in the ingredients- maybe it’s the skip from Babble straight into Zooropa, or maybe it’s the lack of instruments to reproduce the multilayered sound achieved in the studio. Bono would gladly start the song in its normal place if he didn’t know the fans would become bored- the nonsense words, the discordant piano, and Bono’s undersinging of “Zooropa…” It’s not enough to hold a person’s attention, even if they do know and love the song. Bono suspects the band is going to retire the song pretty soon.
Babyface is pulled off well. The only problem is Bono’s singing. The song is in a higher range than usual, and Bono has to strain to hit the notes. He remembers the Joshua Tree Tour and how Red Hill Mining Town had died a slow death because of his inability to sing it. Goodbye, Babyface.
I attend to MacPhisto as he gets ready for showtime. Once Bono’s identity is taken, the Devil replacement is impossible to settle down. He lurches around backstage, thrilled to be in London again. I wonder how MacPhisto’s accent compares to the true British people in the audience, and hope he’s in his element. U2 performs Desire, and MacPhisto is on fire.
“Zooropa! Zoooorrropa! Myyy Zooropa!”
Now it’s time for him to make a bit of small talk with the crowd. MacPhisto swaggers up to the microphone, humming “Those were the days, my friend, I thought they’d never end… la la-la laaaa… da daaa, da daaaa, da daaa…”
He sighs pensively. “It’s not the same, is it? No… Don’t you miss the good old days?” A few fans in the audience shout “No” and I would be right there with them if I could. “The Raj, the Empire!” MacPhisto continues, naming Indian-sounding places. “Don’t you miss the good old days? No talking back from Paddies or Pakis, no!” The crowd cheers. I mentally thank them for liking what I’ve written.
And thank you, Bono, for giving me the idea. The speech would be much poorer if it weren’t for him.
“What’s all the fuss…” MacPhisto says in a dismal tone. I focus all sights on the stage and try to forget everything but how much I love him.
“Salman Rushdie, he can’t be English, can he? Shall I give him a telephone call?” The introduction of MacPhisto’s goal could have been a bit stronger… I add that to my short list of woes about this script. However, the crowd cheers- “Yeah!”
On cue, MacPhisto moves backwards to take up the phone. “He’s been taking my name in vain,” he tells the audience, using my kind of humor. “Yes, all that bullshit about freedom of speech… ha-ha. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” He shakes his head, unable to express how silly the whole affair is. “I sent him into this- I sent him into exile…” MacPhisto perches his fingers over the buttons. “But I do have his number… let me see.” He dials, murmuring something so quietly that my ears can barely pick it up- “Although I’m not sure this is gonna work…”
What phone number has he got, I wonder? Maybe he won’t contact anyone, although I have written a few words as a conversation starter in case he does reach Salman. That alternative is slim, however. No worries- it wouldn’t be the first time we haven’t gotten a good connection.
“Mm. Ta da, da-da daaa…” MacPhisto sings, half to calm himself and half to calm the crowd.
“Hello?” a man answers on the other line after a few seconds.
“Hello, could I speak to Salman Rushdie? The name’s MacPhisto,” MacPhisto says with a wearied air.
“Yeah,” the man responds slowly, “this is Salman Rushdie speaking.”
Hm! So we won’t need to improvise tonight after all! Frankly I’m shocked we’ve contacted him, and I pray my words won’t sound inadequate. MacPhisto can always change them as he goes along, of course.
“Ah!” MacPhisto cheers his success. “Salman Rushdie, it’s been a long time. Tell me, how miserable are you these days?”
“Actually, I’m very well,” Salman responds, sounding like it. “And in fact I’m quite happy too, thank you very much.”
“Do you get… out and about these days?” MacPhisto questions, giggling under his breath like the Devil he is. The crowd also laughs, taking advantage.
“Oh yes, now and again,” Salman says off-handedly. “I’ve got to be careful, of course- I’ve got even more trouble with the critics than you do!” Taking into account who he’s really speaking to, I wholeheartedly approve of this joke, and laugh. MacPhisto seems to hear my cackling backstage through the crowd noise, and looks put out.
“Mm… maybe not,” he grunts. “Well, let me see, I don’t want to make you too jealous, because we’re having an absolutely fabulous evening here at Wembley Stadium!” I cover my ears, anticipating the humongous cheer rising up from the depths of the U2 fans.
Salman apparently isn’t jealous at all. “Yes, I know that, because I’m here too!” My entire body focuses on two words- What the? He… he can’t be telling the truth.
MacPhisto turns towards the audience, raising his eyebrows to the sky. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m much closer to you than you could ever imagine,” Salman brags. “In fact I can see you now! You’re wearing a ridiculous gold suit and you’re standing in front of 50,000 of the loudest people I’ve ever heard in my life!”
The loud people take that as another opportunity to blast our eardrums, while MacPhisto gazes suspiciously into the audience, searching.
“Ah… I suppose that’s you with the blond wig over there, is it, Salman?” MacPhisto finally decides. His voice is a bit dejected. “Well, I don’t know what to say to you, I’m so- are you not afraid? Come out if you’re not afraid,” he taunts the author. “Salman Rushdie, I don’t believe you’re here. No chance… Salman Rushdie, no chance…” The quiet challenge lies onstage- an offering for Salman to surrender himself to the crowd. All eyes- at least mine and Eric’s- are on the stage, watching closely to see if he follows through.
And lo and behold, he does. At first my heart nearly stops, and then I’m pumping my hands in the air, cheering with the audience as Salman walks onstage, casually strolling up from the underground without even a backward glance. He’s smiling nervously- an honor and a danger, to be on the Zoo stage at this time.
My focus instantly turns to MacPhisto and the rest of his band. Adam, Larry, and Edge wear matching stunned expressions. MacPhisto is completely taken aback, and murmurs dazedly “Oh my God.” This is the only time I’ve heard him swear like that, and suppose it’s Bono breaking through beneath.
“I… oh my God,” he breathes as Salman finishes his walk to end up at MacPhisto’s side. “I think you might need these, Salman!” And he sweeps the red horns off his head and offers them to Salman with a flourish.
The author laughs. “I’m not afraid…”
“Of real devils?” MacPhisto asks in a low voice, stepping back.
“…and I’m not afraid of YOU!” Salman finishes, but he’s smiling. The crowd whistles, and MacPhisto makes a surprising gesture. He bends on one knee and kisses Salman’s hand before rising and throwing one arm around his shoulders.
Salman is laughing again. “Real devils don’t wear horns,” he tells MacPhisto, who is still holding his own horns in his hand. He shrugs and smiles, whispering something in the author’s ear, and declares for the benefit of the crowd, “Salman Rushdie, ladies and gentlemen, I bow to the superior man!” That superior man looks overjoyed, and hugs MacPhisto. In their moment of embrace, MacPhisto tosses the horns backstage, winking at me. I roll my eyes happily at him.
Amidst the applause of the crowd, Salman backs away. “Thank you, I gotta dash! Must disappear, gotta run!” He waves shyly before departing. I hope for the life of me that he ends up backstage and safe.
After all this it seems almost rude to continue the show, but U2 do and break into Ultraviolet. MacPhisto sings with a happier passion, reassuring me in the heartbreaking set. He’s got something to look forward to tonight
I race backstage to catch up with Bono, excited to share my points of interest with him. I’m ready to discuss what happened tonight and go out for a celebration. Strangely, Bono’s door is closed and no one answers when I knock. I pull Edge aside as he walks through the corridor and ask what’s going on.
Edge laughs, completely relaxed. “Oh, Bono’s in there, all right, but he’s not coming out yet. You can guess who’s the guest of honor.”
“Salman’s still here?” I ask.
“It appears so, and Bono isn’t going to let that opportunity pass him by! He’s read all of his books.” The Edge laughs at himself. “All four of them, I mean. Come on out with us- that was an exciting incident, wasn’t it? And you wrote the script by yourself…” We depart arm in arm.
The next night- our second night in London- is nowhere near as eventful, but there are plenty of great performances all around. Zooropa, for instance, is played well, bringing me to the highest point of happiness. As I head to Bono’s dressing room to congratulate him, a man bumps into me while coming down the opposite way.
“Oh, sorry! Didn’t see you there, in the dark.” Salman’s chuckle drifts by my ears as he heads towards the dressing rooms, a backstage pass in one hand. I start to smile. Even my worries about Lina don’t seem so bad.
and where is this pic spam of which you speak? Being on the road means iPad, means navigation through interference is hell...
