I knew change would have consequences, and besides, a brief google on the walk here from the subway station told me that 20 per cent of pregnant women experience anxiety and paranoia at some point during their pregnancy anyway.
‘So, you definitely have something I can use?’ I ask, refocusing. I notice the store worker’s name badge: Sylvester.
His brow creases, followed quickly by a pained expression at the computer screen. After a moment he calls out to the backroom, ‘Marv? Marv, you got an Olympus? Ready now? Microcassette.’ Marv and Sylvester.
Marv’s voice comes back throaty and loud, ‘What model?’
Sylvester looks back to me and – finding no help there – answers for me. ‘Er, Pearlcord? Or, whatever you got.’
A pause before Marv’s gruff voice rejoins, ‘Yup. Got a Compact. Spruce it up in an hour.’
Sylvester lifts an eyebrow in my direction. ‘Compact sound good? You happy with that?’
I pause, with absolutely no idea. ‘Will it play the tape?’
‘Sure,’ he shrugs.
It suddenly occurs to me that Robert could have just lent me one of these players, but he chose not to. This is part of the test, no doubt – the thrill of the chase. And I can’t say it isn’t working. I need to listen to what’s on that tape more than ever.
Sylvester pulls a calculator from his overall pocket and tots up some unknown figures. ‘Okay, for the wait I’ll do you a deal. Fifteen per cent sweetener. So… let’s just call it…’ he sucks his teeth. ‘How does $160 sound?’
‘$160?’ I repeat with slight disbelief, though I had no preconceived idea of how much an old Dictaphone would cost in the first place.
Sylvester, misreading my signals, comes back hard and fast with an amendment. ‘Okay, okay: $140, final offer.’
None the wiser, I agree. I hand over my credit card and settle into the idea that I will be hearing Robert’s voice in just over an hour.
13 A Word to the Wise
Friday 25 November
Safely cocooned in an end-of-aisle subway seat, coat tight and scarf pulled high, I slip my new gadget from its M.H. Electricals bag. It’s a relic from another time. I notice a few interested glances flit my way as I prize open its anachronistic wire band headphones and slide the red foam earpieces over the surface of my ears. It’s crazy to think this is how people used to listen to music, the foam pieces barely balancing over my earholes, let alone covering them, and yet I feel an ache of nostalgia for a simpler time. A time before me, before upgrades and updates and digitization. I tuck the plastic bag away and inspect the device.
Sylvester gave me a brief tutorial in the store but there’s precious little that can go wrong with the player. Unless – and I have been resoundingly warned by both Marv and Sylvester – unless I accidentally hit ‘record/play’ instead of ‘play’; the buttons are tiny and right next to each other. If I do that, then I’ll record over the tape, erasing its contents.
But that will not be happening, because unlike Marv and Sylvester, I do not have giant bear hands. And now I’ve been forewarned, I am forearmed. Robert’s tape is safe with me.
I fish the cassette from of my pocket, open the player and slide the tape in. It shuts with a satisfying click.
I press play and the machine responds with another gratifying clunk, then a low fizz and an ambient crackle as sound bursts to life in my ears. I brace myself for Robert’s voice.
Through the headphones, I pick up the distant muffle of voices, then I distinguish the low rumble of fabric rubbing on the mic, as if this were recording in someone’s pocket.
It could be the murmurs of a private conversation or something already badly recorded over. I spin the volume dial up in the hope of hearing more, but the words remain indistinct. And then I get the odd feeling that I am listening to something I shouldn’t be.