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