I have made a terrible discovery. One that has shaken me to my very core, left me pacing the house at night, muttering under my breath while Liz does her best to ignore me.
Nobody here owns a decent hi-fi.
This is not an exaggeration. I have checked. I have asked. I have peered into homes, bars, cafés, and even—God help me—the shop that claims to sell ‘electrónica.’ It does not. It sells chargers that stop working after a week and speakers designed for people who actively dislike music.
The people of this town, these seemingly functional human beings, listen to music in the worst ways imaginable. Tinny Bluetooth speakers. Phones placed in cups to ‘enhance the sound.’ Televisions playing YouTube videos at a volume just loud enough to be irritating but never clear.
“Nobody listens to music like that anymore,” Antonio told me, when I dared to bring it up. “You have Spotify, no?”
I do, Antonio. But that is not the point.
Music needs space. It needs air. A saxophone should not sound like an angry insect trapped in a biscuit tin. A double bass should thrum, not tap politely on the door asking to be let in.
“It sounds fine to me,” Antonio shrugged, tapping his phone. He was playing something I refuse to acknowledge as music. The bassline was as thin as my patience.
Liz sighed. “Maybe people here just don’t care as much about sound quality as you do.”
This is the fundamental problem with our marriage. I bring her existential crises, and she brings me practical solutions.
Later that evening, in an effort to regain my faith in humanity, I took out my own record player. A beauty. Heavy, real, the kind of machine that requires patience and care. I placed the needle gently on A Love Supreme, turned the volume up just enough to fill the space, and sat back.
“It’s late,” Liz warned.
“It’s important,” I countered.
Then I heard it. A knock.
I opened the door. Antonio stood there, arms crossed, the expression of a man who had just caught his neighbour committing an unspeakable act.
“Too loud.”
“Too good,” I corrected.
He shook his head. “I can hear everything.”
“That’s the point.”
Behind me, Liz sighed again and turned the volume down. Betrayal.
Antonio eyed the turntable. “It looks old.”
“It is. That’s why it works.”
Another pause. Then, grudgingly: “Bring it to the bar tomorrow. I want to see if it’s as good as you say.”
A test. A challenge. A chance.
I accepted.
Tomorrow, we fight for sound.
