Den Velt

Mark’s fingers rifled expertly through the shelf of vintage LPs. Thursday: the blessed day. The day when the new ‘finds’ would miraculously appear on the shelves of Mark’s local store. Thursday: the only day of the week where he managed to rise, Lazarus-esque, from his bed before noon. He had crafted arriving at the shop down to a fine art: one minute past nine, week in, week out.

Mark’s fingers stopped. So far they had traversed through mainstream: Boney M, Abba, Johnny Cash, dumped with such disregard for the alphabet that he felt compelled to reorder them. But that wasn’t unusual. That was the weekly bind, the weekly thrill of not knowing which album would appear next. But now his index finger lingered, trembling, over one specific card sleeve. It shone, through the gloom of the early morning store. His fingers closed on it gently, not daring to leave an impression. Mark slowly lifted the cover and his eyes were assaulted by the uninhibited use of colour: by a psychedelic, tangerine rainbow. Mark caught his breath. It was that rarest of finds: it was the ‘Orange Album’ by…

“Den Velt.” The voice came surprisingly over the shoulder. Mark was taken so unawares, he almost released his prize. He turned towards the voice and found himself to be a little too short: his eye-line was her bosom. As expertly as he could remember, he inclined his head, more to engage her in the eye.

“The Orange Album,” she continued, the gravel in her voice eliciting a positive response in Mark’s lower regions. “A rare find.”

Mark was transfixed: possibly by her eyes, though it was hard to tell. She had a fringe of Chrissie Hynde length, which made discerning anything about eyes merely the subject of conjecture. However, he definitely approved of the cut of her jaw. And her lips. And her breasts: topographically the most accessible of her features to someone of Mark’s diminutive stature.

“I,” Mark began, hesitantly, “haven’t seen you here before.”

“No,” she agreed, “It’s my first time. I’m a bit of a ‘virgin’.”

Something about the way she said the word stole Mark’s breath away. He found himself fumbling: both his words and the album.

“Are you going to buy it?”

Mark managed a mute nod.

“Could I come back to your place for a listen?”

Mark almost soiled himself.

Mark’s shaking hand juggled to get the key in the lock. Her hand reached over his shoulder, her fingers closed around his and she guided his key safely home. Once more, Mark struggled with himself. He watched, with an inner glow of satisfaction, as she admiringly absorbed the full effect of his living room. Each wall, from floor to ceiling, was filled with LPs housed on his own, custom-built shelving. Five thousand, six hundred and seventy two of the finest, most pristine albums he had managed to lay his hands upon: the majority of which were prog-rock and specifically Dutch prog-rock.

“Would you like a drink?”

She turned his way, causing a wave of hairs to stand erect the whole way up his arm.

“I’d love a Scotch.”

Mark never drank this early in the day, but her presence in the flat gave him a sudden need for copious amounts of Dutch courage. As she accepted the glass, her fingers brushed his, causing the hairs all up his legs to stand on end. Mark wondered, with all this erect hair, what his naked body would look like, which lead to him thinking about her naked body, which lead onto another large Scotch.

“May I hear it? The Den Velt?”

As Mark removed it from the carrier bag, his nose encountered the scent of nicotine. The album cover, like so many of that era, was impregnated with the aroma of a thousand student parties. He paused, recalling his own student days, back when he himself smoked. Back when girls were interested in him.

He placed the LP on the perfectly isolated turntable, checked the alignment of the needle. The valves of the amplifier had the honey glow that signified they were at the correct working temperature: the ribbon speakers were ready. As he held his breath, Mark lowered the needle into the welcoming grove. 1973 rumbled into life.

She was transformed. From the first, infectious note, her body moved and flowed with the Low Country rhythm. Mark watched happily as she was consumed by the music: her dancing becoming ever more expressive, filling the room.

“Where’s your bedroom?” Mark’s hand pointed before his brain fully engaged. “Come on then!”

Mark woke. He opened one eye. The bright sun reflected off the anaglypta ceiling. It was still day. He was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming sense of embarrassment. She’d taken him to bed, given herself and he’d fallen asleep.

Mark rolled over. Her side of the bed was empty, though her glass of Scotch sat quietly on the bedside table. Quietly. Mark’s ears could no longer hear the beat of Den Velt. He needed to get up and put it back in its sleeve.

Gingerly, Mark got out of bed. It had been a long while since he’d done anything like that. He was quite pleased that he appeared not to have pulled anything.

Slightly staggering into the living room, he noticed the record players arm was lifted. A growing wave of realisation spread like a rash over his entire body. She was gone. And so was Den Velt!