Bono (13 page)

But why, then, has no African leader just come forward and said: “We don't need the white men to solve our problems. We can do it ourselves!”

But that's what NEPAD was: New Economic Partnership and Africa's Development. This is what Thabo Mbeki was doing when he put together African leaders in a new kind of partnership, away from patronage. That's what we're talking about: a new kind of relationship. But you can't self-determine if you're carrying that kind of level of injustice in trade and in debt. How about this? If Africa got one percent more trade, one percent of global trade, it's the equivalent of three times what Africa receives every year through aid. Africa receives about 21 billion dollars in aid every year. So 70 billion cash would come into the continent, for one percent increase in trade. This is the way towards self-determination. This is what we're working for, away from the nipple of aid. Africans are sick of the cap in hand. They deserve equal and as fair access as anybody else to the pie. So I'm not for some sort of paternalistic attitude to Africa. I'm against it. But in order for that to happen, we have to break a certain chain. And colonialism is still there in a certain sense. Slavery is present. Economic slavery is
what we're talking about, where people make cheap goods for us in the West, but aren't paid.

Lasting presence and involvement are the things that really count, don't you think?

Well, for example, the Global Health Fund at the moment is a new and necessary approach that's set in Geneva, to deal with AIDS, TB, and malaria. It's outside of the UN, but Kofi Annan has asked for 10 billion dollars a year. It has a four percent overhead only, and out of the four percent overhead, they are hiring accounting firms like Price Waterhouse and Stokes Kennedy Crowley in every country that applies for this. And they police and audit where the money is being spent. This is a new approach to foreign assistance or aid. In the past, aid has been tied to commercial contracts: they'd give you five dollars, but four of them you'd have to spend on French or English or German products, or consultants. It was corrupt and rotten. But those days are over. There are people who are working on this a lot harder than I, giving their whole lives to champion reform of aid, who are not going to let that happen. There will always be abuses, but the increase in foreign aid will only be for places where there's clear and transparent process, where there's good leadership, and where we can see where the money's going. The bright stars, if you like, they get hothoused. The countries around them that have no poverty-reduction programs in place and no good ideas on how to spend the money will lose out. They won't be able to gain access to these new funds, because the people whose taxes they represent won't let them, and they're right.

I heard nothing from Bono until February 2003, when someone from Principle Management called and asked for my address. The next day, a gendarme delivered a letter by motorcycle into the hands of my stupefied twelve-year-old son Antoine, declaring:
“De la part de Monsieur Jacques Chirac”
(“On behalf of Mister Jacques Chirac”). I opened the envelope and read the card:

Mister Jacques Chirac, President of the Republic, requests the presence of Mister Michka Assayas at the ceremony where the insignia of Knight of the Legion of Honour will be presented to Mister Paul Hewson, a.k.a. Bono, at the Élysée Palace, on Friday the 28th of February 2003 at 12 hours 15—Lounge suit required.

Established by Napoleon, the Legion of Honor is a distinction that usually rewards those who served the French state. “Chevalier” is the first rank, but you may become an “Officier” or even a “Grand-Croix” in the
long run. Each ministry provides a list every year, and Bono was proposed by the Ministry of Culture, which traditionally honors artists from all over the world, making them in this way honorary Frenchmen, which is without a doubt the greatest honor a non-Frenchman can receive.

For some time, I was lost in reverie. But then, and this probably is my way of responding when something goes to my head a little too much, I concentrated on a detail. What the hell was a “lounge suit”? When I found out, I just had to face the awful truth: I had no matching trousers and jacket. I went ahead anyway. So for the first and probably last time in my life, I was invited into that main courtyard of the Élysée Palace, which I had seen so many times on TV. It was a small gathering: Mr. and Mrs. Paul McGuinness with their son Max, the ambassador of Ireland and his wife, the Irish painter Louis Le Brocquy's son and his Vietnamese girlfriend, whom Chirac flabbergasted with his knowledge of Asian civilization, a French lady lawyer and friend of Bono's, and an astounded official from Universal Records in Paris, who was standing in for the missing chairman. Plus, of course, Mrs. Hewson herself, Ali. There also was an old school friend of Bono's, a girl with the radiant glare of a fifteen-year-old; Catriona, Bono's assistant; Lucy Matthew, who works for DATA (she had accompanied Bono in Africa with the ex-secretary of treasury of the United States, Paul O'Neill), and a wonderful woman who works in Geneva for the United Nations and clears the ground for many of Bono's meetings with politicians.

Chirac produced a speech, which was not so bad. Obviously, his ghostwriter had been fond of U2 at some point in his life. Notwithstanding, I had to make an effort not to burst out laughing when the president pronounced the words: “Zuh . . . Edge.” “That's cool!” pronounced Bono when the speech was over. The bastard, he was not wearing a tie, and he had managed to get me wearing one. Of course, he gave me a mischievous wink when he presented me to my own president who—as all big shots I have come across in my life—looks like some kind of mechanical creature when you look at him in the eye from a close distance. Nothing personal, I had the same impression about his rival Jospin.

Bono talked to the press, and was very impressed by Chirac's knowledge of the terrain. The president had spent more time in Africa than any head of state and was genuinely trying to understand the issues, he said. After one private meeting at the Élysée, Bono was asked: Did he really believe the president was as passionate about Africa as he said?—Yes, said Bono. “My job is to turn that passion into cash.”

We were all—not including Chirac—invited to a celebratory lunch at the Hôtel de Crillon, where, a few years before, U2 and crew had been ordered to clear off for the benefit of African heads of state coming over for a summit. Bono made a speech. So did Paul McGuinness, who had just had the time to hastily buy a coffee-table book presenting views of Paris. I remember the smile on Bono's face when he read my words of wisdom on it:

“Congratulations! You managed to get me moved by Chirac, and that sure is no small deed.” Then the solemn mood flagged. The girls insisted on staying overnight and celebrating in Paris. They wanted to do some shopping as well. Bono went along with them, with his Legion of Honor hanging on the lapel of his jacket, the decoration looking like a fake, oversized thing on his chest. He proclaimed that he was extremely proud to have been made a “Maurice Chevalier” of the French state. I asked Bono whether he knew that Maurice Chevalier was the singer of the old classic “Thank Heaven for Little Girls.” “And so we should, Michka,” was his answer.

The company reassembled for dinner at a very traditional bistro, L'Ami Louis, favored in its time by President Mitterrand. I presented Bono and friends with a personal award: a toothbrush (with toothpaste), for nobody had planned to stay beforehand. Bono kept it all evening as a trophy in his breast pocket, the nylon white hairs of it proudly protruding. I did not go so far as to offer underwear, though. We finished the night in a couple of trendy clubs that the record company guy knew about (it always takes a foreigner to discover those places in your hometown). What happened here? We drank, Ali danced, Bono talked
enthusiastically with strangers. And we kept drinking. I remember my behavior became extremely enthusiastic. At some point, I asked Bono something like: “And our book? What about the book?—It's going to be the shortest chapter in the book,” said Bono.

A few days later, I wrote a letter to Bono to thank him again for that evening. I also mentioned the fact that I could not get through to him on his mobile. Then I received an e-mail:

Michka,

I'm e-mailing because I can't speak with a toothbrush in my mouth after that night. Sacrebleu . . . it was great to see you . . . to meet Claire
*
and to attempt to drink Paris dry. My number (+ 353 +++++++++) hasn't changed so you are obviously still drunk.

Your friend,

Bono

During the winter of 2003, Bono did a lot of what he called “footwork” on behalf of DATA in the United States. That occurred during the very period when the U.S. and their allies cast no doubt on their intention to invade Iraq. From what I grasped from Principle Management's camp, Bono was reminded, somewhat firmly, by his colleagues that he still held a job as singer and writer in U2, and that an album was due for production that year. I got the information that Bono was due to give a performance on May 25, 2003, at the Pavarotti and Friends concert, a TV charity event that the maestro stages every year in his hometown of Modena (in Emilia-Romagna) for the benefit of his foundation for ill children. Other guests included the three remaining members of Queen, as well as Deep Purple, Eric Clapton, Lionel Richie, and local soul singer Zucchero. Bono had a duet programmed with the tenor. This was no Lollapalooza. I proposed to come over. Bono thought that was a good idea, and that maybe we could spend some time together. So I flew there. Bono rehearsed with what seemed to me a full orchestra. You could see
Pavarotti sitting on a chair at a close distance, covered in a sort of flashy red smock of a light fabric round his neck, the kind I remember the barber would make me wear as a child in the mid-sixties. It was hanging loose on his massive features, so it made the impression of a big red balloon with a bearded smiling head on the top of it. Bono was wearing his usual Fidel Castro khaki cap. He rehearsed two songs: the first was a version of “One,” accompanied by his acoustic guitar and the orchestra. But the important number was the duet of Schubert's “Ave Maria,” for which he had written new lyrics. He sang:
Ave Maria / Where is the justice in this world? / The wicked make so much noise, Ma / The righteous stay oddly still / With no wisdom, all of the riches in the world leave us poor tonight / And strength is not without humility / It's weakness, an untreatable disease / And war is always the choice / Of the chosen who will not have to fight.
The day after the performance, the lyrics to Bono's revised “Ave Maria” were reproduced in every national paper in Italy.

As soon as Bono and team set foot outside the dressing room, it looked as if every possible media person in Italy was in the place. Bono stopped every two yards, speaking in front of a camera. Then there was a press conference held in a tent. Here, Bono seemed more like royalty than a celebrity, as everyone politely guffawed each time he made a joke. It was an impression that was confirmed later that evening. A dinner was set up at the restaurant owned by Pavarotti in the countryside. There, it turned to Beatlemania, except that it wasn't girls but women cooing over Bono. I swear I saw a few of them twisting their high heels on the gravel driveway, in order to catch a fleeting glimpse of him.

At the second floor of the restaurant, which had been reserved for our crowd, media people kept queuing, thirsting for the great man's words of wisdom. All of a sudden I was sitting next to Gandhi: not a bad promotion, I thought, for a guy who used to climb on piles of speakers at his own concerts. After an amazing round of desserts and grappa, we went down the stairs again. We passed in front of the resident band. They were performing “Unchain My Heart.” Grappa-inspired, Bono picked up the
mike. I'm not sure he knew the song. The diners cheered. When we left, grown-ups still seemed to chase after us. And it was not over. When the motorcade stopped in front of Bono's hotel in Bologna, he was greeted by a crowd of a hundred youths who cheered ecstatically. One of them brandished an acoustic guitar; another one waved the cover of
War.
Bono seemed more to be sucked into the hotel lobby than to actually enter it. Then I was left to walk to my own hotel. The sudden quietness and solitude felt weird, on the brink of being eerie. I felt I had been thrown out of an interstellar spaceship, let loose in an arbitrary spot.

The next day was a different story. I was meeting Bono in the lobby of the Grand Hotel Baglioni at midday, whence we were scheduled to leave by car and have lunch together. A crowd was still hanging around, kept away by crowd barriers and the usual guy in a black suit. In five minutes Bono was down in the lobby with Sheila Roche and his tour manager Dennis Sheehan, who said we had to use the other exit, as there was no way we could break through that crowd. On the double again. Then, as we went down the stairs, Bono muttered something to himself and said it was not OK, that this behavior was too much of “a pop star thing.” So up we went again. We tried for the main door. Bad idea. The cheering crowd massed ever more tightly, traffic was blocked, and we could not take the smallest step forward. So Bono had to settle for the pop star thing and use the back entrance.

We quickly arrived in a quiet and narrow street in Bologna's Centro Storico. The empty restaurant that had been booked was so dark I first thought they were out of business for the day. Bono decided to settle for the café next door instead, a nondescript place, equally empty, where he chose to sit at a table outside. We ordered some pasta and a plate of local ham and salami. It was a brave choice of venue on Bono's part, and one that eventually got on my nerves (though I didn't show it), since we were interrupted every two minutes. A girl on a bike approached us and took Bono's arm, glowing, crying
“Che fortuna!”
(“What luck!”). Then two policewomen asked for autographs. At one point a local resident thought
it was a good idea to put on “Pride (In the Name of Love)” at the highest possible volume. I must admit I was the nervous one. Throughout, Bono was as quiet as if he were sitting in his own garden. I think that reflects on the conversation, where the mood got more and more—dare I say it—“spiritual.”

Remember what you told me back in Killiney? “You should ask me to draw a tree at some point.”
[Bono laughs out loud]
Maybe you should have thought twice before saying that, because I want you to draw a map of the route you took to get from home to school.

It's a long one, though, because I went into the center of the city, and back out.
[proceeds to draw a map on the back of a scribbled sheet]
This is all the North Side, OK? I was at a place called Ballymun, a mile from the Tower Blocks. Actually, the Seven Towers. I'll put them in.
[draws with unconcealed pleasure]
It was an incredibly long journey: five miles into Dublin city center. And then I'd take another bus all the way, because you couldn't get to Mount Temple [his school]. That's very important, because most kids are not in the city. They're out there in the suburbs. At twelve or thirteen, I WAS A TOWNIE
[writes the phrase in capital letters].
So I used to hang out in record shops.

Do you remember the names of the stores?

Yeah, Golden Discs. And that's a great one: Pat Egan's, in a basement. UV light. Punk rock lived there later
. [scribbles them on the sheet]

Lots of things seemed to happen there.

Lots of things. Gambling
. [keeps on drawing]
Very important thing in here. One of the biggest institutions in my life: “Lost and Found.” CIE, bus company. They knew me by name in there, because I lost something every
week. I lost all my books. I lost everything I had, all the time. And I still do. Like, I lose my phone every week now. I don't seem to have a very good short-term memory. For instance, especially now, from traveling around the globe and having people driving you in taxis, chauffeurs, and so forth, I know not to store this information, because it's not my hometown. So I have no idea of directions. Even now, in my own city that I grew up in, I'm starting to forget where I'm going
. [resumes drawing]
Now, along the road—Glasnevin—was the Ink Bottle primary school. First kiss. And botanic gardens, beautiful botanic gardens. River Tolka. I used to lie along the banks of the river Tolka, among the flowers—poppies, they were—and just dream. It was a Protestant school. There weren't many Protestants in the area, so I had to go out of the area to visit the place. It was a tiny little thing with a tiny little yard. The headmaster was very good to me, to all of us. We used to kick the soccer ball over the railings into the river, and then we'd have to call school off and we'd all climb over the railings and chase the ball all the way along the river to get it back, so we'd spend miles going. On a sunny day, he kind of turned his back and waited for us to kick the ball over the railings and into the river, because I think he liked it too. It was very good memories for me, that school. Though, my first day at school, somebody bit my friend. So I banged his head off the railings. So I remember very quickly getting to a place where people wouldn't want to bite me
. [laughs]

The first thing you drew on this map was these Tower Blocks.

I had very strong feelings about it at the time, because I remember when they pulled down the trees and fields, and started to develop the housing estate. This was to be the first high-rise experiment in Ireland. We used to play in the foundations. Then we heard they had lifts in them. We thought: Oh, this is gonna be great, this is like being modern, and Dublin's going like everyone else. Just as everywhere else in Europe was discovering that
high-rise doesn't work, in Ireland we were just starting. They moved inner city communities away from their own self-managing, and policing, and real community spirit, put them in high-rise buildings. It started very quickly to descend into a dangerous place. Lifts would break down. People'd get very upset that you'd have to walk up the stairs. I remember walking up the stairs to see my friends, it was piss coming down the stairs, and stink. These were really nice families, good families, living next to people who were sociophobes, who were feeling freaked out about their new address. So when we used to go for a walk in the fields, we could come across the gangs from the Seven Towers, and that was the jungle. Violence, as I told you, is the thing I remember the most from my teenage years and earlier. This was like a working-class area that we lived in, fairly—maybe working-class, lower middle-class—but, you know, the difference between the incomes of people who lived here and people who lived there might be very little. It might be like a car. My old man had a car, so we were rich. And that was a reason to be tortured.

So the other kids who lived there resented you?

Oh yeah. Dublin was very violent. Then, the drugs came in, round 1978. There was very cheap heroin. The people who were smoking dope ended up smoking heroin, as they gave it to them for nothing. And then when people were really strung out, that became an unbelievably violent place.

Teenagers at that time seemed to feel like the old world was being destroyed. Don't you feel as well that punk rock was a way of responding to that?

I think what punk rock gave to us was that you could knock everything down and start again, either decide who you wanted to be: a new name, a new pair of shoes, a new way to see the world. Everything was possible,
and the only limit was your imagination. That became further true with DJ culture. You didn't even have to play an instrument—you just had to have the imagination.

Maybe punk rock happened in reaction to the ugly new architectural landscape that was springing up, which was close to a nihilistic statement in and of itself.

Oh yeah. The violence of suburbia starts with its ugliness. The inner city communities, those redbrick houses, they actually had something attractive in texture and tone, those tiny houses my grandparents grew up in. There was more to them than this new suburbia. You know, in Ireland, in the seventies, a lot of these places were built by corrupt builders. They didn't put in plans for shops and amenities. It was just cookie-cutter housing schemes. In a way they defaced Dublin, these property developers. And the violence that returned to them, a generation later, we all had to live with it. Because in housing schemes like Tallaght, I think it's 27,000 young people between the ages of twelve and eighteen walking the streets every night. It's like an army. There was nowhere for people to go, nothing. Women used to push their prams for miles. This is a violence done to them. It's a great place now in comparison.

I once read an interview with Mick Jagger, where he said: “When I was twelve, I loved to play the fool in front of my friends.” I figured you weren't like that, I presume your mood would have been more somber. Is that so?

Well, no. I was full of mischief and fun. Probably until I was fourteen. And I think everything changed when my mother died, and our home became an empty house, with all the aggression between my father, my brother, and myself. But up to that, I was full of fun and mischief.

Yeah, you mentioned that.

I mean, I had all of that. Then, later, I found that fun and mischief again with my friends and the Village, as we used to call ourselves. We invented a Village, which was an alternative community, called Lypton Village, and we used to put on arts installations, when we were sixteen, seventeen, with manic drills and stepladders. See, the alcohol level in our neighborhood was so high, people going to the pubs a lot, and we were young, arrogant, and probably very annoying kids, but we didn't wanna go that route. The pub looked like a trapdoor to somewhere very predictable, so we wouldn't drink. We used to watch
Monty Python
. We invented our own language, gave each other names, and we'd dress differently. We would put on these performance-art things, and in the end we formed two bands, the Virgin Prunes and U2. But I did have what you French would call
joie de vivre
, I was fun. You know what Ali said to me ten years ago? She said: “You know, I fell in love with you because there was mischief in your eyes. You were bold as brass, and you were fearless, but you made me laugh. You've gotten very serious.” That was true towards the end of the eighties. I started at this point to dismantle my earnestness, and set fire to my . . .
[pause]
self!