The Old Marantz Valve Amplifier

It was my twenty-first birthday. We were at Fulvio’s apartment: me, Fulvio, Lisa, Rolando. The tagliatelle with dried porcini was almost ready. The sauce was done, the pasta just seven timer minutes away. I was uncorking a special red from Piedmont when the doorbell rang.

It was M. I did not know he was coming, but Fulvio let him in without showing surprise. Still at the door M. handed Fulvio a white plastic bag, held flat like a tray. I thought of a baking dish, a homemade cake perhaps.

“This is for you.”

“Ah! You made it.”

Fulvio obviously knew what was inside. Before opening it and revealing its contents, he laughed and patted M. on the back. They seemed to congratulate one another, although it was impossible to know why. Fulvio then pulled the contents from the bag and placed an object on the table. It was not a cake, but a component of a stereo system. An amplifier, a Marantz 1090. A piece of technology that was already old back then. At that time we all had some degree of interest in stereo systems, the same interest that today you would have for a new smartphone. Technical interest for some, social for others; other than girls, who flaunted the privilege of having nothing to do with technology; and M., who had better things to think about. Some of us had spent a fortune on sound equipment. Fulvio had a room dedicated to listening, with massive speakers, over a meter high, and pieces of furniture chosen according to their degree of sound absorption.

I remember looking in stunned silence at the strange object. An old Marantz valve amplifier! One that does not awaken right away, but takes a minute to warm up, then gives that warm and full-bodied sound that most modern and expensive amplifiers in vogue at that time had lost.

From the open door someone came forward that no one knew, except Fulvio. A beautiful girl with red hair. Bea, she was called. She, however, I could tell by Fulvio’s expression, was not expected.

We set the table for two more. I remember that when we started to eat, the pasta was a bit cold, because Bea and M., who came from Munich by car, had spent a lot of time in the bathroom freshening up. They had got changed, and Bea must have had a shower as she hadn’t dried her hair and the shoulders of her shirt were wet. M. sat next to Fulvio, and she was left at the place next to me. As she sat, I felt the delicate lash of her fragrant and dripping hair on the nape of my neck. She ran a hand down my neck, more to apologize than to dry it. I looked at everybody with pride: even though it was a bit cold the pasta turned out very tasty. ”Mm, have you made it?” Bea asked rhetorically, with a full mouth.

 

We stayed hours, sitting and talking. We opened other bottles. We sat on the dusty deck chairs in the small yard. Somebody rolled a joint. Bea lit it, inhaled greedily with closed eyes, then handed it to me, with parted lips that let out the smoke with a slow breath. I shook my head.

“You do not smoke.”

“Yes, but not now. Well, I’m quitting.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes it doesn’t agree with me.”

Fulvio ensured that there was always something good to listen to. He came and went from the music room, a loud sound roared out of the open door; the neighbors were on vacation.

The smoke made us feel hungry again, even me who haven’t had any. Lisa said that the coffee bar round the corner was probably still open, we could buy pastries.

“I’ll go,” said Bea. She put her hand on my knee, and with the other pulled my arm until I was standing.”Coming?”

“I’ll wash the dishes,” I said, smiling and shaking my head.

“I’ll come with you”, Lisa said, whispering something in her ear. Almost a kiss on her neck. They laughed. On the stairs, I could hear that they were still laughing.

Fulvio and M. Laughed, too. M. was telling of his journey. At that time, to travel to Europe, a passport was needed and you had to fill your pockets with foreign currencies.

“Two borders, four checkpoints,” he was saying.”Germany – Austria, Austria – Italy. And at the last I was stopped and checked.”

“And?” Said Fulvio, seriously involved.”What happened?”

M. spread his arms in an expression that meant all fine.

“Have you got a screwdriver?” M. then asked curiously to Fulvio. I did not remain to see what it could possibly be used for. A strange energy was circulating. I felt like an outsider. M., who I knew little and was not really part of the circle of our friends, had always looked at me with undisguised contempt. I did not know why. He had never said a word about me; never in my presence, at least. Yet I knew he wondered why someone like me was part of such an interesting group of guys.

I went to wash the dishes.

I realized that Fulvio was at the hub of this situation. His girlfriend, Lisa; and then Rolando, and myself, were associated with him through our love of music and exotic literature. A cultural link. Shared tastes. But between Fulvio and M. there was a special relationship, stranger to us. With M., Fulvio revealed another aspect, which did not relate to us. An ability to move practically in the adult world, that none of us had. I, least of all, I who did not even know what to do after my studies, the one not pursuing a career. I had chosen a university that would not generate employment opportunities. I was just overwhelmed by an insatiable curiosity for books, painting and travel, without having the money to satisfy it. I would spend my nights alone, in a kind of fever, a block of watercolor paper in hand, the memory of things seen in the day’s wanderings to record, and my nightmares to commit to paper. The practical life repelled me. One thing I knew with certainty was what I did not want to be. I was ready to flee. I disagreed with all the assumptions of the society around me, but still I had to form mine. I was waiting. Sooner or later my life would begin.

To M. I had to be an inconceivable figure. He, at twenty-two, had a good job. A beautiful car, with which he came and went across Europe. Always money in his pocket, to offer us dinners. The robust body of a person who does not let a day go by without a two-hour gym session. Boxing, another incomprehensible passion he had in common with Fulvio, who kept his gloves in the hat stand at the entrance, next to his faded, baggy leather jacket.

An adult and decisive gravity in judging: the news, what to do at the weekend. An agenda of commitments. The ability to act in the world that was denied to me because I was waiting. A square face with a muscular jaw, a shadow of a beard that appeared punctually in the late afternoon, as bushy as thick moss, unlike that kind of colorless and insipid joke that sprang from my cheeks, as uncertain as my way of moving in the world. And a girl. A beautiful girl.

I was socially recognized only for my jokes, which I served as cold as vengeance and pleased everyone, including M.. And for my watercolors. Fulvio kept one hanging in the hall. A fantastical creature with a long snout, asleep against the trunk of a tree. Bea had stopped to look at it for a long time. “He painted it,” said Fulvio, calling me near them.

“Who is that?” Asked me Bea.

“Dunno,” I replied, and I immediately went to the kitchen to serve more wine.

 

At a certain point I realized that the music had ended. Fulvio was immersed in conversation, so I went to change the disc. That room, half-empty, quiet, equipped with carefully premeditated and well laid out pieces, seemed to me a sanctuary.

I began to rummage through the records. I saw the black shadow of Bea against the door.

“You,” she called, without using my name. I remember that it seemed appropriate, like a passing army officer who calls an nameless soldier. I don’t have a name, I remember thinking irrationally. Not yet.

She had a deep masculine voice, stripped of the frivolous and boring frills that I associated with the presence of women. She walked towards me.

“You’ve been avoiding me all evening,” she said, her face close to mine, her hand on my shoulder.”When I walk into a room, you go out. When I ask you something, you are evasive.”

She paused, her eyes planted on mine. I could feel her breath on my cheek. Our faces really close, too much for regular interaction. When so close you have to kiss, or bite, or something.

It was only then that I saw my fear. Of her beauty, first of all. That she was with M. That she was looking for me. That I would never be able to have a normal interaction with her. I liked her too much; it could only be love – or distance. Of the fact that Bea, in a simple and direct way, could see the attraction that paralyzed me and of which I became aware only in that moment.

I had liked her immediately, and I had not known any better than to avoid her. Without realizing it. Is it possible that I was avoiding all the things that I liked, preparing myself for an anodyne and empty life, already, as a young man? Can you feel this for a girl who is another’s, after just a couple of minutes? (Later in life, I learned that it merely takes a few seconds – the rest is useless superstructure). Was it possible that she liked me? So brutally inferior to the other guy sitting there talking about boxing? Or maybe she just wanted to have a normal human interaction with me, that with my nonsense I was preventing and that she, taking it it personally, wanted to get me to react? Or maybe she was intrigued exactly by this, by my insane mixture of attraction and fear?

I’m not ready for this, I remember thinking. I lowered my chin, I walked away without a word. When I arrived at the door, I heard her voice again.

“Bea,” she said. And then, again,”Bea”.

“When I have a daughter, I want to call her Bea, like me.”

 

I almost went back to hug her. That is what I wanted to do, but I was still paralyzed with fear. I turned around without a word. I took two steps to the kitchen, where Fulvio and M. were screwing the rear grill of the Marantz amplifier back into place.

“Fixing up the amp, guys? What’s wrong with it?” I forced myself to say, so that they would not notice my state. They responded with a vague grunt.

M. looked at me thoughtfully. He motioned me to sit down. I was sure he had seen me with Bea, he was going to threaten me.

“You found something you really like, huh?” He said, with a strangely calm smile. I felt my mouth dry, and sweat running down my spine.

“What is it that you like so much? ‘I was going to throw out a desperate response when I saw that he was gesturing at the amplifier.

“Yes,” I managed to put together with an unconvincing voice. “At a first glance… it is small, nothing special. Not huge, black, rich and full of features, displays, sliders like some others on the market. Does its job and nothing else. But the quality of an amplifier shows by its voice. And its voice is warm in a way that the modern types no longer have.”

M. smiled again.”Very well, then. It’s yours. Happy Birthday.”

“Are you sure? It is a valuable object. There are collectors who would…”

“It’s all dented. I have been carrying it around with me too long.” He answered, and again he and Fulvio began to laugh like lunatics. Fulvio especially, who gave him high five in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Probably they had smoked again.”No collectors. It’s for you. I now need a much bigger one.” And he made a fisherman’s gesture with his hands. And both of them bursting out laughing again.

“Well, then thank you.”

 

It was time for me to go. I picked up the Marantz in my arms, like a little dog, I raised the amp in a goodbye gesture at the guys – I remember Fulvio saying softly to M. , but I could hear: “He is incredible, he never notices anything.” On leaving I looked back into the music room where Bea was sitting on the floor, empty eyes, smoking a cigarette.

I did not dare to approach. I spoke to her from the door.

“You will indeed have a daughter. Your Bea”. Then I ran out. I remember thinking, I hope the father will not be M., and soon after I was touched by the crazy thought that Bea had considered me as the father. If not, why talk to me, tell me what she told me?

What are you thinking? Crazy, you are raving, get out of here, I said to myself.

 

On the stairs, I caught the smell. It came from the amplifier. I looked at the large cooling rack, that Fulvio and M. had unscrewed and screwed back in, revealing the inside circuits.

Wasn’t it strange that M. always carried it with him? An old valve amp?

The valves. All those valves which easily overheat and require such a big cooling grid. And empty space. A lot of empty space.

At a guess you could fit two or three hundred grams of hashish in there.