Another had a figure that seemed to me, all in all, acceptable, but her face was obtuse and hostile, so I preferred not to signal to her. I drove slowly, staying near the edge of the pavement, three times up and down. But, however slowly you go, there’s no way of looking carefully, of reflecting on the pros and cons, of making a considered decision. These things are done better on foot. So I returned to Via Borgogna, parked the car, glanced at the photographs outside the Maschere, where they do stripteases, traversed the porticoes, crossed the temporary bridge that passes over the excavation for the metro in Piazza San Babila, and arrived at the porticoes of the Corso.

The traffic is on a detour there, too, because of the metro, and since at that hour the creak of the buckets and the breathing of the cement mixers ceases, I heard no more than the tapping heels of people walking. Women walk rapidly, alert and sullen, all alike, whether they’re hookers or not. But I know how to distinguish them: that one, for example, maybe would have the face, but besides her purse she’s carrying a package, so she isn’t. The rule doesn’t admit exceptions: package plus purse – to be excluded. Also a book, a magazine, a Sunday supplement. The hooker on the job has always and only the small purse.

Not only: while others keep their eyes fixed straight ahead and head high, when a prostitute meets up with you she turns her gaze slightly and gestures with her head. In this way I picked out three or four. One tall, shapely, with a shiny black leather coat; another smaller and round, plump, the way I like, with teased hair and a flared skirt; a third very thin and long, with a horsey face.

I followed the small one; she noticed and slipped off along Via Agnello. She stopped in front of a shop window and when I was close she said immediately, ‘Will you give me ten thousand?’ I kept going, and from Via San Paolo arrived again at the porticoes. There I immediately found a buxom brunette who advanced at a comfortable pace, with a nice smile. She looked at me, and I immediately said ‘Good evening, Miss.’ She turned, faced me and tried to respond, but with gestures more than with her voice. From her throat issued a faint, dull sound, ‘Uuuh, uuuuh,’ and yet she didn’t abandon her friendly smile. She held her hand open, as if to say five thousand. ‘Eeeh, annn, eh!’ she said again.

I was stunned, in disbelief that a deaf-mute could be a streetwalker in the centre of Milan. I turned on my heels and went back over the bridge, having decided to get in the car and go home. But the car wasn’t there. I retraced all of Via Borgogna, went back, turned on to the side street, went as far as the Rivoli cinema, asked the parking attendant, but he didn’t even answer, because I leave the car in authorized spaces only, and that wasn’t one. In other words, it had been stolen.