expose her torso. A crowd surrounded her, exulting in the woman’s humiliation. Lena stepped into a doorway to let them pass. Growing up in the Evil Garden, she
had often seen such punishment. Familiarity made it no less oppressive. It was as though a cloud of hatred passed before her, noisome and crackling with viciousness.
The whore lurched forward as the bailiff gave another stroke of the cane across her shoulders. Lena winced. The donkey jumped through the crowd. Someone must’ve stuck it with a knife to
make it buck , she thought. The whore arched her back and swayed, exhausted, silent, eyes vacant. Her breasts were striped with dung and offal thrown from the crowd.
These same men gambolling beside the donkey were the ones who harassed Lena when she stood in the Piazza Navona to sell her vegetables. A woman couldn’t be alone in the streets of the Evil
Garden without hearing shameful words directed at her. Lena knew how to give it back to them, how to mortify them before others so that they rushed away. Even in those small exchanges, she
understood that men’s lives were dictated by their honour, by the figure they cut before others, by their mastery over women.
Another knife went into the donkey and it galloped out of the piazza with the swaying whore. It towed the crowd towards the water mills moored in the Tiber.
Lena headed across the Evil Garden for her mother’s home. Most of the whores were girls from far away, not like her. They came from Siena, where a plague a century ago had devastated the
city and forced its young people to seek a living elsewhere, even now. Others were from the poor south of the Italian lands, or from Greece. They had grown up thinking that Rome was a better place,
with opportunities for a good and prosperous life. Lena had always known this was not so. As a girl she had played in the streets where the whores worked, seen them beaten and scorned. She had
watched their corpses swirl under the bridges with the city’s refuse. She had recognized the desperation and fear in their raucous laughter before she had even been old enough to understand
what it was they did.
She was twenty-three and had she lived elsewhere in Rome she would have been married by now. But the Evil Garden disturbed all the order of life. The son of a rich family had seduced her before
she was twenty. He thought himself unbound in honour towards her, because she was from the Evil Garden. To those who didn’t live there, the roughest part of Rome contained nothing but whores
and criminals. It was a place for dangerous games, but not for marriage. Later Lena had tried to warn her sister of this, but Amabilia also was taken in by a gentleman and ended dead on the
birthing bed. Death was the one rite of natural life not barred to the people of the Evil Garden.
When Amabilia died, Lena had taken her sister’s baby as her own. Domenico was the single illumination in all the hatred and sadness and death around her. She sighed as she waited for a gap
in the carriage traffic so that she might cross the Corso. She felt herself withdrawing from the world. The pressure of the relentless ugliness weakened her. Sometimes a strange melancholy brought
her to tears while she cleaned the floors of del Monte’s palace. She found herself staring at Domenico as he slept and suddenly she would weep, or she would lie in bed like a hibernating
animal while her mother berated her for laziness.
She went quickly across the Corso and up towards the Via dei Greci. She thought of the artist who had spoken to her at the palace. He had approached her at first like any other lowlife gallant
in the Evil Garden, though she had detected an instant of hesitation that made her wonder if it was his true character. She had rebuffed him with a good humour, because to do otherwise might cost
her job. But when he appeared at her door beside the two old beggars, he had looked into her with a gaze that invited her to look back, to see
had often seen such punishment. Familiarity made it no less oppressive. It was as though a cloud of hatred passed before her, noisome and crackling with viciousness.
The whore lurched forward as the bailiff gave another stroke of the cane across her shoulders. Lena winced. The donkey jumped through the crowd. Someone must’ve stuck it with a knife to
make it buck , she thought. The whore arched her back and swayed, exhausted, silent, eyes vacant. Her breasts were striped with dung and offal thrown from the crowd.
These same men gambolling beside the donkey were the ones who harassed Lena when she stood in the Piazza Navona to sell her vegetables. A woman couldn’t be alone in the streets of the Evil
Garden without hearing shameful words directed at her. Lena knew how to give it back to them, how to mortify them before others so that they rushed away. Even in those small exchanges, she
understood that men’s lives were dictated by their honour, by the figure they cut before others, by their mastery over women.
Another knife went into the donkey and it galloped out of the piazza with the swaying whore. It towed the crowd towards the water mills moored in the Tiber.
Lena headed across the Evil Garden for her mother’s home. Most of the whores were girls from far away, not like her. They came from Siena, where a plague a century ago had devastated the
city and forced its young people to seek a living elsewhere, even now. Others were from the poor south of the Italian lands, or from Greece. They had grown up thinking that Rome was a better place,
with opportunities for a good and prosperous life. Lena had always known this was not so. As a girl she had played in the streets where the whores worked, seen them beaten and scorned. She had
watched their corpses swirl under the bridges with the city’s refuse. She had recognized the desperation and fear in their raucous laughter before she had even been old enough to understand
what it was they did.
She was twenty-three and had she lived elsewhere in Rome she would have been married by now. But the Evil Garden disturbed all the order of life. The son of a rich family had seduced her before
she was twenty. He thought himself unbound in honour towards her, because she was from the Evil Garden. To those who didn’t live there, the roughest part of Rome contained nothing but whores
and criminals. It was a place for dangerous games, but not for marriage. Later Lena had tried to warn her sister of this, but Amabilia also was taken in by a gentleman and ended dead on the
birthing bed. Death was the one rite of natural life not barred to the people of the Evil Garden.
When Amabilia died, Lena had taken her sister’s baby as her own. Domenico was the single illumination in all the hatred and sadness and death around her. She sighed as she waited for a gap
in the carriage traffic so that she might cross the Corso. She felt herself withdrawing from the world. The pressure of the relentless ugliness weakened her. Sometimes a strange melancholy brought
her to tears while she cleaned the floors of del Monte’s palace. She found herself staring at Domenico as he slept and suddenly she would weep, or she would lie in bed like a hibernating
animal while her mother berated her for laziness.
She went quickly across the Corso and up towards the Via dei Greci. She thought of the artist who had spoken to her at the palace. He had approached her at first like any other lowlife gallant
in the Evil Garden, though she had detected an instant of hesitation that made her wonder if it was his true character. She had rebuffed him with a good humour, because to do otherwise might cost
her job. But when he appeared at her door beside the two old beggars, he had looked into her with a gaze that invited her to look back, to see
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