Bono

The room shimmered with radiance that seemed to be emanating from the man who calls himself a simple Buddhist monk. I’d seen versions of that light in maternity wards, around deathbeds, and often around animals. The only name I can give it is pure love. He took my hand and greeted me with a gaze so intense, it was like looking into the eyes of a wild bird. It seemed as if we’d known each other for centuries. No stranger to suffering, the former leader of Tibet fled his country as a young man and lives in exile. Many thousands of his followers have been slaughtered. Yet his deep, mahogany laughter springs from the core of the Earth. I keep a recording of the interview in my desk drawer. Whenever I need consolation, or simply to be reminded what it means to be alive, I click the play button and listen to his laughter.

When I asked him where women fit into his religion, he adjusted his robe and fixed me with those blazing eyes. Everything in the universe since the beginning of time, he said, has sprung from pure light. That light, he assured me, is female.

So, while I’m willing to accept the sun may have been filtering through the stairwell in an unusual way that day, as far as I was concerned, Monique had a halo. What’s more, her eyes were shining with excitement. With her dark hair tied back and a broad, open smile, she had something of Michelle Obama about her. Not only did I warm to her on the spot, I felt I’d known this woman through many lifetimes.

“I’m sorry, Bono’s a bit shy,” I said.

“Where is he?” Monique asked.

“He’s not always like this,” I replied, pointing at the bed. “He takes a while to get used to people.”

Disappointment flashed across her face. She had every reason to turn around and leave. I was grateful when she accepted my offer of a cup of tea. Sitting on the sofa, Monique told me she’d always loved black cats. I said I felt the same way, and tried to explain the impact of Cleo on our lives. Monique’s Cleo equivalent had been a treasured feline called Onyx. He’d died five years earlier. The heartbreak of losing him had been shattering. She kept Onyx’s ashes in her apartment, and maintained a shrine to him in her kitchen.

Some people have cats. Others have soul mates wrapped in fur. Onyx clearly fell into the second category. Monique hadn’t been able to consider opening her heart to another feline.

“But I think I might be ready now,” she said.

As I poured hot water over the tea bags, it occurred to me that five years is a long time to grieve over a cat. Monique was no lightweight in her commitment to animals. She was exactly the sort of person Bono needed. He’d be incredibly lucky if she offered him a home—if only he could summon the courage to step out into the open and introduce himself.

“Not very friendly, is he?” Monique said as I poured her a second cup of tea.

Bono’s chances were evaporating as fast as the steam over our cups. I felt like grabbing the mop and chasing him out from under there. But all Monique would see then would be an angry and frightened cat. After a while, conversation dwindled. Monique sighed and reached for her handbag. Any hope I’d had sank to my ankles.

“There he is!” Monique whispered.

Bono trotted out from under the other side of the bed as if he was on a shopping errand that had nothing to do with us. He paused beside the fireplace. I held my breath. Though he’d lost interest in it since Lydia had stuffed it with plastic bags, I was anxious he might decide to liven up the afternoon with a second attempt. He admired the daffodils, and arched his tail in a fetching curve.

“Look at that haircut!” Monique said. “He’s beautiful!”

I’ve yet to meet a cat that doesn’t respond to sincere flattery. Bono spun around, tossed his mane and flashed his eyes at Monique. She called softly to him. He straightened his tail and strutted toward her.

To my amazement, he leapt onto the sofa between us. Purring lightly, he wrapped himself around Monique’s hand. The chemistry between woman and cat was immediate and powerful; almost as if this was a moment they’d both been waiting for.

“I don’t mean to sound strange,” Monique said as Bono sprang onto the coffee table. “But do you believe in reincarnation?”

I struggled for an answer. Certainly, Lydia had unquestioning faith that souls were recycled through eternity.

“Something about him reminds me of Onyx,” Monique continued.

Bono jumped off the coffee table and landed on her lap. Fixing her with those headlamp eyes, he meowed intensely at her.

“I thought so,” Monique crooned back to him.

Goosebumps prickled up my arms. Any ambitions I had about keeping Bono dissolved. These two belonged together.

“How soon can I take him?” she asked.

I told her I’d need to contact Bideawee because there would be papers to fill out. No doubt they’d want to do a background check on her the way they had with me.