To further her abasement, Wenslawe set Margery to serve a pauper whose unredeemed suffering is barely clothed in a story. Margery lived for three months in semidarkness in the woman’s third-floor tenement cell without bed or furniture, and slept under a cloak. A single mosquito stood on the ceiling. That’s Jesus, she thought. Both women were infested with lice. To Margery’s dismay their menstrual cycles linked so she was united with generic suffering, nameless and buried many times over.

The woman didn’t cover her head; her gray hair was matted. Smoke from the unvented fire inflamed their eyes. Bumps on Margery’s ankles became infected and they itched with swoony exasperation.

A black goat lay panting on its side in a murky corner—he was a sort of hearth to the women. The goat was so crippled by malnutrition that he walked on his front elbows. Margery carried water and sticks on her neck, begged for the woman’s food and wine, and longed for Jesus. Because Margery was poor, every act demanded greater effort and her energy counted for less. Her tongue pushed around dry fibers of meat from diseased cattle and when the wine went sour she drank it herself from a stone cup.

Margery bought the woman a fancy meal with a gold coin that Mary had earned from begging. The goat watched slyly and Margery’s own mouth watered as she laid out the salmon and shrimp (expensive in Rome even then), white bread, noodle pudding, and white beans cooked with mutton and onion, as though she were serving Jesus.

As Jesus, her guest touched the salmon. Margery pressed her tongue against her upper teeth to suggest how tasty it was.

An angel—gold space and wings like wilted lettuce leaves—turned away from the threshold: the angel of scrupulous despair who won’t accept a false word in describing itself.

28

In early January at market in the Campo dei Fiori, Margery saw Dame Margaret Florentyne riding in a tiny car drawn by a white mule. The cold air held a yellow pall of ash. Margery stood in white rags, one hand resting respectfully on the mule’s neck. Neither woman understood the other very well. Margaret noted everything attractive which affected the pace of her perception. She heard a wren’s vehement warble. The mule nodded its big mallet head emphatically. Margaret’s voice was artificially cheerful. “Marjerya in poverté?”

Margery considered the question, the brutal day-to-day grinding to dust. “Grand poverté, madame.”

Margaret gathered the reins. “Marjerya Sunday yes?”

You can’t have chance encounters unless you travel. Every table had a head waiter and two servitors but Margery sat at the high table where Margaret served her with her own hands.