Bono

“Well, we are in the theater district,” Michaela said. “And it was an actor who suggested the name.”

I crossed the room and bowed before Matilda. My homage was acknowledged by a regal lick on the back of my hand.

“Matilda has her own Facebook page,” Michaela said.

Of course. What self-respecting hotel executive wouldn’t?

* * *

I’ve always loved Gershwin, and An American in Paris was a delicious concoction. The dancers reminded me of Bono and how his feet barely touched the floor. Watching a young man flex his spine backward, I winced and hoped he wasn’t lining himself up for arthritis a few years down the road. When I was younger, I used to think dance and acrobatics was to do with showing off. These days, I watch openmouthed and wonder how a human body can do such things.

I caught a cab back in time to listen to my neighbor saying goodnight to Darling . . . you hang up first . . . go on . . . love you . . . are you still there? . . . Oh. No, you hang up!

One of the traits I identify with cats about is their invisibility. Compared to roughly 85 million cats in the United States, there are only about 75 million dogs. Cats are tucked away in houses and apartments. They observe the world from the top of garden walls or from under hedges. Cats spy on people, but we seldom see them. They’re the tail disappearing behind a fence, the curtain twitching inside a window. Aware of others’ sensitivities, cats take pains to leave no trace. Dogs, by contrast, demand center stage. They dump on the sidewalk on the assumption someone else will deal with it. On the streets of the Upper East Side, it seemed every third person was escorting a tiny pedigree on a leash. I stopped outside grooming parlors to watch dogs getting outlandish haircuts. The window of a doggie day care framed a restless sea of pugs and Pomeranians, miniature poodles, and terriers. A tired-looking woman trailed after them with a mop. She wasn’t about to win Happiest Employee of the Year.

Last time I was in New York, I didn’t have to take the subway seriously. Living on the Upper East Side was a different matter. Provided I stayed clear of rush hour, I found the subway system endearingly archaic and almost spacious compared to Tokyo’s. I read somewhere it’s advisable to avoid eye contact with other passengers, but that applies to just about any transport system these days.

After getting off at Grand Central, I wandered past familiar shops and boxes of orange tulips up to Second Avenue. It was always spring in New York. There was so much I’d missed—the rumble of trains under my feet, the steam gushing from grates and manholes as if the city was about to erupt any second. And the fire hydrants. Every other city I know has fire hydrants you wouldn’t look twice at, but New York’s are miniature works of art. I stopped off at the bakery where Lydia and I had demolished a pastry with a million calories. I ordered one for old time’s sake, which was a crime seeing there was no one to share it with. Like someone haunting the scene of an ancient love affair, I made my misty-eyed way up to the corner of 44th. Once the handbag sellers had assessed I wasn’t a potential customer, they turned their backs. Outside our old building the same old beggar was sunning his stump on the steps and munching something out of a paper bag. I wished I’d been bold enough to make friends with him when I’d been living there.

Standing on the sidewalk and gazing over his head up at the red door with the heart-shaped lock, I almost felt like I was home again. Though the neighborhood was achingly familiar to me, I was back to being an outsider. Even if I could work out which buzzer belonged to Patrick, he’d probably forgotten me. I had not caused a ripple on the surface of his existence. In two years, nothing and everything had changed. Bono and I did not live there anymore.

Chapter Forty-one

LIVING LIKE A CAT

Things Bono taught me.

Hope of seeing Bono again was fading. I decided it was probably a good thing. He had a new life now and certainly wouldn’t remember me. Besides, I had no right to barge into Monique’s world and claim any part of him.

Michaela had told me not to miss the cat exhibition at the Japan Society of New York on 333 East 47th Street. The Japanese have long loved cats, and some of the woodblocks were centuries old. Intimate domestic scenes depicted felines in every mood—from fierce hunter to furry plaything. I was drawn to the philosopher cat sitting on a window ledge gazing at Mount Fuji. Cats accompany people through every phase of their lives.