Revenge: Eleven Dark Tales

  The people at the other tables were drinking quietly. No one seemed to be looking at her, though I suspected that some of them must have been aware of her secret.

  She began to sing, but I could not make out the words. It must have been a love song, to judge from the slightly pained expression on her face, and the way she tightly gripped the microphone. I noticed a flash of white skin on her neck. As she reached the climax of the song, her eyes half closed and her shoulders thrown back, a shudder passed through her body. She moved her arm across her chest to cradle her heart, as though consoling it, afraid it might burst. I wondered what would happen if I held her tight in my arms, in a lovers’ embrace, melting into one another, bone on bone … her heart would be crushed. The membrane would split, the veins tear free, the heart itself explode into bits of flesh, and then my desire would contain hers—it was all so painful and yet so utterly beautiful to imagine.

  The song ended, and like everyone else in the club, I applauded.

  When she bowed, I worried gravity would pull her heart from her dress. But almost immediately, she began another song.

  * * *

  The day arrived for the first fitting of the bag. The weather was sunny and mild, but she appeared in a heavy coat just as she had when she first came to see me.

  The room was warm, even with the curtains closed. The hamster had left his nest and was sleeping on the wire floor of the cage. Though he normally slept in a ball, today he was stretched out full-length.

  The woman’s chest was dripping with sweat, but that made the skin glow whiter than ever.

  “Tell me if it hurts you in any way,” I said. She nodded but said nothing.

  It was indeed a strange bag. The complicated shape of it was difficult to achieve. I had assembled nine different pieces of leather into an asymmetrical balloon with seven holes of varying size. The bottom of it was an oval, but the bag tapered toward an opening at the top that fastened with hooks. The strap for her neck was long and somewhat awkward, as the leather hadn’t had time to soften. I was afraid she might get tangled in it.

  It looked like a spider, or a work of modern art. Or a fetus that had just started to grow.

  I undid the hooks. Even before I touched the heart, my fingers could feel the heat; it made my head spin and my palms sweat.

  “Hurry up,” she said, sounding irritated.

  “Yes, of course,” I answered, fastening the hooks as quickly as I could. “I’m sorry. Shall I attach the strap as well?”

  “Please do,” she said. Her arms hung at her sides, and she made no effort to look at the bag. My hand passed through her hair and fastened the strap around her neck. I took a step back and wiped my palms on the front of my apron. Then I took a deep breath.

  The bag suited her to perfection. The lustrous finish of the leather set off the color of her skin, and its shape fit elegantly along the curve of her breast. The veins and arteries peeking out at the edges, the leather pulsing almost imperceptibly with each contraction, the strap caressing her graceful neck—I had never seen anything like it.

  Her blouse and slip were discarded on the couch. The loudspeaker at the train station droned softly in the distance. I stood and admired my handiwork.

  “The hole for the artery here is too high,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Please fix it.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll make the adjustment.”

  The bag conformed to her every movement, protecting her heart like a faithful servant.

  “It is nice and light,” she continued, “but the hooks rub my side.”

  “I’ll use smaller ones and move them around to the front.”

  “Yes, that might help.” She continued to test the fit—loosening the strap, rolling her shoulders, and finally striking a pose as though a microphone were in her hand.

  * * *

  “What’s that?” she said, pointing at a little bag sitting on the shelf above the sink.

  “It’s for the hamster,” I said as I refilled her teacup.

  “The hamster?”

  We had removed her heart from the bag and she was buttoning up her blouse.

  “I put him in it when I take him out for a walk. He seems to enjoy it.”

  “Did you make his bag, too?”

  “Of course.”

  She stared curiously at the pouch: a simple thing compared with hers, with nothing more than a few air holes in the side.

  “I never knew there were so many different kinds of bags,” she said.

  I took a sip of tea and looked out at the bright sunlight.

  * * *

  The bag was almost finished. The leather was a soft cream color, the cutting and stitching were precise down to the millimeter. I had hung a sign on the door announcing that the shop would be closed until further notice and had spent long hours at my worktable. A regular customer had even called to ask me to repair her makeup case, but I turned her away.

  The beauty of the heart oppressed me, but my hands were steady as I worked. I had managed to make a thing that no one else could have made.

  * * *

  The hamster died. It might have been the heat wave, or maybe I neglected him because I was so absorbed in my work. I fed him and cleaned his cage every other day—for three years and eight months—but he died anyway.

  He lay still in my hand, teeth sticking out from his half-opened mouth. His body was still soft, but he already felt cold to the touch. I had no idea what to do with him, so I put him in his pouch, left my apartment, and wandered the streets of the town. I walked along the banks of the river, through the park, and around the reservoir, but I couldn’t find a place to get rid of him. From time to time I stopped to unzip the pouch and check on him, but he was definitely dead.

  When I got tired of walking, I stopped in at a hamburger place. I didn’t really want a hamburger, but it was too much trouble to find a real restaurant.

  I could barely eat half the food on my plate, and the coffee was almost undrinkable. When I went to throw away the trash, I slipped the hamster out of the pouch, on the tray next to my food, and slid him in the bin. I don’t think anyone noticed.

  He must be covered in ketchup by now.

  * * *

  “What do you mean?” I asked her.

  “Just what I said. I won’t be needing the bag.” She took a cigarette from her purse and lit it.

  “But it will be done in a day or two…”

  “I know it seems absurd to cancel the order at this point, and you have every right to be angry. But it all happened so suddenly—I can hardly believe it myself.” She let out a puff of smoke, and I watched it float toward the ceiling. “I’ve known for some time that it might be possible to put my heart back in place, but the operation always seemed too risky. Then I found a marvelous surgeon who told me he could do it using a new technique.” She went on like this a while longer, but I wasn’t listening.

  “I’ll be going into the hospital next week, and I’ll be rid of this depressing thing forever.” She glanced down at her side with a look that was almost scornful.

  “But it’s a wonderful bag. Here, see for yourself. I’ve moved the hole for the artery and switched to smaller hooks. I’m sure you’ll like it.” I held it out for her to see. “I just want to reinforce the stitching here and adjust the strap and it will be done.”

  “I’ll pay you for it, of course. But I won’t be needing it now. I won’t have anything to put in it.”

  “But see how exquisite it is. You won’t find a bag like this anywhere else. The insulation, the breathability, the quality of the materials, the workmanship…”

  “I said I won’t be needing it.” As she stood to go, she brushed the bag from the table and it lay there on the floor, as still as a dead animal.

  * * *

  “Dr. Y from Respiratory Medicine. Dr. Y from Respiratory Medicine. Please contact the pharmacy immediately.” The announcement played again, but Dr. Y was apparently still missing.

  The elevator
was crowded with doctors and nurses, and patients with drip bags of yellow liquid, but I forced my way in and pressed the button for the sixth floor. I was sure I’d be able to find her room. I would pretend I was just visiting her, or I could say I wanted her to pay me for the bag. After all, I ought to get something for all my work.

  First, I’ll apologize for the other day—very humbly, in order to regain her trust. And then I’ll say what I’ve come to say: “Making your bag has been a very important experience for me. I don’t think I’ll ever have the chance to make a piece like this again. Still, I’m happy you’re getting the operation and won’t need the bag. But I do have one final request: I’d like to see it put to its intended use just once. I know it’s asking a lot, but I’d be very grateful. I promise I’ll never bother you again, but nothing is more painful for a craftsman than knowing all his hard work was for nothing. Just this once, and I’d be eternally grateful.”

  She’ll take off her gown, and I’ll fit it on her.

  “Are you satisfied, then?” she’ll ask, eager to be rid of me.

  “Thank you,” I’ll say, but when I reach for the bag, I’ll cut her heart away, too.

  And then it will be mine alone.

  The bag is in my left pocket. I tried to fold it flat, but there’s a little mound in my pants. I don’t think anyone will notice. The shears in my right pocket prick my thigh as I wait.

  The elevator chimes, the number six lights up, and the door opens.

  WELCOME TO THE MUSEUM OF TORTURE

  Lots of people died today. In a city to the north, a tour bus tumbled off a cliff, killing twenty-seven and badly injuring six more. A family of three, weighed down with debt, committed suicide by turning on the gas—and when the house exploded, six more died next door. An eighty-six-year-old man was killed by a hit-and-run driver; a child drowned in an irrigation ditch; a fishing boat capsized; some mountain climbers were swept away by an avalanche. There was a flood in China, a plane crash in Nepal, and in Niger a religious cult committed mass suicide.

  But it wasn’t just humans. I saw a dead hamster in the garbage can at a fast-food place this morning. I was throwing out a coffee cup when I happened to notice it. The can was so full that the lid was half open—a perfectly ordinary sight yet something caught my attention.

  A hamster lay between a crumpled hamburger wrapper and a crushed paper cup. Its fur was speckled brown, and its tiny arms and legs were a beautiful shade of pale pink. The poor thing almost still looked alive. I even imagined I saw its little paws twitching. Its black eyes seemed to be looking at me.

  I opened the lid the rest of the way, releasing the smell of ketchup and pickles and coffee all mixed together. I was right, the hamster was moving: hundreds of maggots were worming into its soft belly.

  Why was everyone dying? They had all been so alive just yesterday.

  * * *

  A man was murdered in the apartment directly above mine, in number 508. He was apparently doing a residency at the university hospital. He was stabbed more than a dozen times in the neck. They say he was nearly decapitated.

  “Did you know him?”

  As the detective took the photograph out of his pocket, I pulled back instinctively. I would never be able to eat my dinner after looking at a picture of a bloody, severed head—and I had been just about to add the crushed tomatoes to my minestrone when the doorbell rang.

  “Don’t worry.” The detective’s tone was kindly, and the picture turned out to be an ordinary snapshot taken in an office somewhere. There was no blood, and the man’s head was squarely on his shoulders.

  “No, I’ve never seen him,” I said after examining the photo.

  “Do you know anything about the woman who lives upstairs?” The detective was well built, but he seemed very young and quite nervous. I wondered whether it was because he had been looking at a dead body just moments ago—smelling it, maybe even touching it. He appeared to be on edge, almost as if he had committed a murder himself. He kept his head down, and he seemed uncomfortable as he took his notes.

  “No, I didn’t see her much. Just the occasional ‘hello’ in the elevator.”

  “Did you notice men coming and going to her apartment?”

  “I’m not sure. I suppose I’ve seen her with a man, but I don’t remember whether it was the one in the picture.”

  I took another look at the photograph. The man was wearing a white lab coat with a fountain pen and a pair of scissors and a penlight in the breast pocket. He had a stethoscope around his neck. There were wrinkles at the corners of his mouth from the effort of smiling.

  “Did you hear any suspicious noises at about eleven o’clock two nights ago?” He spoke each word so distinctly that he was almost stammering.

  “I certainly did.”

  “What kind of noises?” For the first time since the beginning of the interview, he looked me straight in the eyes. I could see he was genuinely interested now.

  “It sounded like something heavy being dragged across the floor. I thought she was rearranging the furniture.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “I was brushing my teeth before bed, so it must have been a little past eleven.”

  “About how long did it last?”

  “Just a few seconds. So I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “Did you hear anything that sounded like an argument, any screams?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  The detective listened to me with his full attention, as though afraid of missing any little detail, and then he scribbled everything down in his notebook. Even though we had just met, I felt I was already indispensable to him.

  “By the way, a patient at the university hospital was stabbed to death the other day as well. We’re trying to figure out whether there’s any connection between the two incidents. Would you know anything at all about that?” He took a second photograph from his pocket.

  The woman in the picture appeared to be singing in a bar. She was thirtyish, slender, with a pointy chin and a pout. She had split ends and the roots of her dye job were showing. As a hairdresser, I notice these things.

  “The attacker used scissors to gouge a hole in her chest.”

  “How awful! One in the throat and the other in the heart.” I could hear the minestrone bubbling in the kitchen. My apron was splattered with juice from the tomatoes. “No, I’ve never seen her either,” I told him.

  “No?” he murmured, clearly disappointed. I felt as though I’d let him down. “The tiniest detail could be helpful. If anything at all comes to mind, don’t hesitate to call.” I wanted so much to be useful, to say something that would keep him interested. But nothing came to mind. “Well then,” he said, bowing politely, “if you think of anything, please get in touch.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  * * *

  My boyfriend arrived just on time. It had been a while since we’d spent our day off together. In fact, we’d been so busy I hadn’t seen him in almost three weeks.

  We were planning to watch a video and have a quiet dinner at home. Then we might go out to a bookstore or record shop, or take a walk in the park. Or maybe I would cut his hair on the balcony—though he always says it embarrasses him to be seen like that by people in the neighborhood.

  Dinner was almost ready. I had seasoned the shrimp, and they just needed to be grilled. The salad was in the refrigerator, and the wineglasses sparkled. The minestrone had boiled a bit too long, but it would still taste fine. I had bought his favorite strawberry shortcake at the bakery on the plaza, and set the table with the new cloth and napkins. Everything was perfect.

  “I’ve been dying to see you,” he said as he took me in his arms. Or at least that’s what I think he said. His voice was muffled by my hair, and I couldn’t hear him clearly, but I decided not to ask him to repeat himself, in case it had been something less romantic.

  He took off his coat, inhaled deeply the smell of dinner coming from the kitchen, and pushed back
his bangs, which were too long. We sat down on the sofa and held each other, neither of us saying much. We both knew that silence was the best way to appreciate a moment we’d been waiting three weeks for.

  I could tell someone was in the apartment upstairs and wondered if the police had come back. It was noisy outside as well, but not enough to disturb our peace. His arm was around my shoulder, and his other hand held mine where it rested in my lap. I laid my cheek against his chest, and I could hear his heart beating, feel his breath on my neck.

  When I’m curled up in his arms like this, I can never tell how my body looks to him. I worry that I seem completely ridiculous, but I have the ability to squeeze into any little space he leaves for me. I fold my legs until they take up almost no room at all, and curl in my shoulders until they’re practically dislocated. Like a mummy in a tomb. And when I get like this, I don’t care if I never get out; or maybe that’s exactly what I hope will happen.

  Still, the moment came when I had to pull myself away and break the silence.

  “Did you know there was a murder upstairs?” I said. For some reason, I couldn’t resist telling him. A murder was special, interesting.

  “I saw a patrol car parked outside,” he said, his hand still holding mine.

  “The police were swarming all over the building, and there were lots of reporters. It was awful. They even came here asking questions. I was a nervous wreck—the first time I’d ever talked to a detective in my entire life. Have you ever talked to one?”

  He shook his head.

  “He was nice enough,” I continued. “Seemed new to the job, but he was very polite. I heard some strange noises the other night, the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. Probably had something to do with the murder. He was very interested—about the noises. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but for some reason I remembered. And I had even checked the time without realizing it. It was ten after eleven. Which is really the point. The exact time of death is always important in things like this.”

  This time he nodded, and I continued.

  “They said the victim was a doctor at the university hospital, that he was stabbed to death by his mistress, almost decapitated, actually. It’s too horrible to think about. But it’s an old story: blind love and jealousy. Though I don’t know why she went for the throat. I think I’d aim for a spot with more meat, the chest or the belly. The neck is such a small target; you might miss completely, and I doubt it would be very satisfying, even if you did hit it. If you were that angry, wouldn’t you want to tear his guts out or something? And there was one more queer thing: that same day, a patient was murdered at the hospital where the doctor worked. A woman who was just about to have heart surgery. The attacker used a pair of scissors, stabbed her in the chest. I wonder whether there’s a connection between the two? Something more complicated than a simple crime of passion? Oh, yes! I nearly forgot. And a reporter from one of the talk shows came around asking questions, too. How could they resist?—it’s a perfect story. But it was a shock, having a camera shoved in my face. I recognized the reporter, one of those fast-talking women with too much makeup. No one in the neighborhood had seen anything, so she was having trouble digging up information. But I told her everything I knew about the woman upstairs. That she was beautiful, wore designer clothes … Oh! Also she followed the recycling rules of the building. I only knew her from saying hello in the elevator. But the reporter seemed really grateful; she said my information was very useful. Of course, they’ll hide my identity when they put it on TV. No one wants to have their face splashed around in connection with something as awful as this. She said the interview would be broadcast tomorrow. I’ll have to record it. Who knows, maybe what I told them will turn out to be the key to solving the case. Do you think so?”