I’m not a Catholic, even though my parents had me baptized (I could, in good conscience, declare that ‘I don’t remember the event’), and even though my three sons were baptized: to keep the peace, because it’s what Viola and my parents and my in-laws want. My point is, I don’t have the sense of sin that plagues Catholics. And I’m obviously a man of my time, by which I mean prey to the tensions and suggestions – contradictory, of course – of our age. Certainly I feel the influence of advertising, all the more pernicious the more subtle and clever it is. Now, the most widely advertised ‘item’ in Italy today is, precisely, sex. Literature, cinema, fashion and custom impose it on us continuously. My natural inclination to give in completes the picture.

So without regrets and without complexes, one fine day I made up my mind and telephoned the number a friend had given me. I had only to mention his name, and the female voice, at the other end, invited me to appear, that very evening at five, in an establishment in the neighbourhood of Via Archimede, in the name of a certain Armida Ceccarelli, renter of rooms by profession. She was a woman of around fifty, jovial and still attractive. She welcomed me politely and immediately led me into the living room, where the girl, who said she was called Milly, was watching television.

It was a Thursday afternoon, and so Passport, an English lesson with Jole Giannini, was on. I remember that the screen showed a mock-up of a greengrocer, and the professor was reeling off the various names. ‘Beans,’ she said in perfect English. ‘Peas, cucumbers, onions, garlic, avocado, artichoke.’ It occurred to me that articiocco is a term for carciofo, artichoke, widespread in various northern dialects, in an area, perhaps, of Lombard contamination. But I wasn’t sure and resolved to ask confirmation from a friend and customer, a philologist.

The girl, Milly, was watching, interested, then Signora Armida returned with two small Turkish towels, handed them to us, and asked if we wanted to make ourselves at home, pointing to the door of her bedroom. The cost was ten thousand lire. Not bad. I realized later that half the amount went to the girl, half to the landlady. Before she left, Armida urged me to come again soon.

After that I returned several times to the Via Archimede neighbourhood, always after calling to make an appointment. I ended up becoming friendly with the signora, who recounted her troubles – her widowhood, her rheumatic pains, her gossiping and nosy neighbours, the demands and hang-ups of certain girls. For my part, I managed to tell her my tastes, because I like women who are a bit short and plump, with curves in the right places, in other words. And I have to say that the signora always tried to please me and that we always got along until the day I read in the newspapers of a police raid at that address in the Via Archimede neighbourhood: they had jailed Armida Ceccarelli and also a Gennaro Lo Cicero, twenty-eight, her lover and business partner in the exploitation of the prostitution of others: under the Merlin Law it’s up to seven years flat. After that, I never heard about Signora Armida again.