The Last Recording

By five o’clock, the repair shop would be empty. The shelves were bare, the sign had come down, and Mara Venn had packed everything except the tools on her bench. She was turning over the key in her palm when a man stopped outside the window. He looked at the pale rectangle where the sign had been, checked the address on his phone, and knocked.

His name was Eli Shaw. He set two things on the bench: a translucent red cassette with a cream label, and a mustard-yellow portable cassette player with a black speaker grille. The player had belonged to his father. The cassette was the only one Eli had kept. He had tried playing it that morning and heard the motor turn, then nothing.

Mara asked what was on the tape. Eli said he didn’t know. His father used to carry the player around their flat, recording whatever happened to be going on. The kettle. The football on the radio. A conversation from the next room. Sometimes he announced the date in a formal voice, as though someone might want to file the sound of a Tuesday.

Mara looked at the clock, then drew the bench lamp closer. She opened the player and turned one of its wheels gently with a fingertip. Eli watched her face. She had the still, slightly impatient look of someone trying to hear a sound through a wall. Then she turned the player so he could see what she was looking at. The old drive belt had slackened and slipped.

There was a drawer she hadn’t emptied yet. Mara opened it and pulled out a little envelope of spare belts. She compared two against the old one, held one up to the light, and set it down beside the yellow player. Eli asked if she could fix it. She said she could try. He sat on the stool on the other side of the bench.

While she worked, he told her about the last message his father had left him. It was on his phone. A reminder to bring a screwdriver when he came round. Eli had saved it because it was the last one. He knew every breath in it by now. He’d brought the cassette hoping to hear his father say something he couldn’t already finish for him.

Mara replaced the back of the player and tested it with the compartment empty. The spindle turned. She picked up the red cassette and checked that the tape was sitting straight. Then she slid it into the player and passed it across the bench to Eli. He put his thumb on the button, paused, and looked up at her. She nodded.

For several seconds there was only hiss. Eli almost pressed stop. Then a cupboard door closed. Water ran into a kettle. A man called from somewhere close to the microphone, asking whether there was any bread. A younger voice answered from further away. Eli leaned towards the grille. The younger voice was his own. He remembered the kitchen, though he couldn’t remember that morning.

A chair scraped back. The man by the microphone began to whistle, stopped after a few notes, and tried the tune again. Eli laughed. He looked up, surprised by the sound he’d made, and saw Mara smiling back. They listened through the end of the tune. Then the recording wandered into a long stretch of someone washing dishes.

At five o’clock, Mara switched off the bench lamp. Eli put the red cassette back in its case and took the yellow player under his arm. At the door he asked what she was going to do with the spare belts. She said there was another repair shop across town. She’d been meaning to go and see it. He held the door open while she picked up the box.

Outside, the pavement was wet and the streetlights had just come on. Eli waited while Mara locked the door. They stood for a moment in front of the empty window, each carrying something that had been left until last. Then Eli headed for the bus stop. When he got home, he made a cup of tea, sat by the kitchen window, and pressed play again.