measuring tape stuck to the viscous membrane, or if germs passed from my hands to the vulnerable organ? I was a mass of anxieties.
“You needn’t be so timid,” she told me. “It’s tougher than it looks.” She must have sensed what I was feeling. It was unlikely she had allowed many strangers this view of her heart, yet she seemed perfectly comfortable with the situation and not the least bit wary or embarrassed.
But the heart itself still appeared to be cowering in fear, the blood vessels trembling with each contraction. From close up, the sinews and folds of muscle seemed to conceal a mysterious code.
Then my finger accidentally brushed against it.
It was so warm! Warmer than anything I had ever touched before. The heat shot through my hand, filling my body and emptying my head.
The measuring tape dropped at my feet.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. I gathered up the tape as she stood over me. My fingertip was still tingling. I could hear the hamster sucking at his water bottle.
I learned she was a singer, and that she performed regularly at a club nearby. After I had stitched together a sample of the bag for her heart, I went in secret to hear her sing. It was the first time I had ever gone to see a customer outside my shop. In fact, even in the shop I tend to have no more to do with them than is absolutely necessary. I feel that my connection to them should be solely through my bags. So if I had to explain why I made an exception in this case, I would say that I had no particular interest in the woman herself, but that I simply wanted to see her heart in the outside world.
The club was larger and quieter than I had thought it would be, which I hoped would allow me to spy on her without being recognized. Alcohol and tobacco stains had darkened the wood of the candlelit tables scattered around the room; the floor was littered with peanut shells. The woman stood next to a grand piano in a circle of orange light at the front of the room.
She was wearing a long, tight purple dress made of silky material. And over it was a sequined cape that sparkled in the spotlight—a clever disguise for the lump on her chest. Still, she probably would have preferred something more stylish; the cape reminded me a bit of a nun’s habit.
I sat down at a table in the corner and ordered a beer. It hardly mattered what I ordered, since I can’t drink alcohol. The waiter put a bowl of peanuts on the table and left.
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
