I went into a bar, asked for a phone token, dialled the number of the police station in the area. A blonde at the counter was looking at me, but I had other things on my mind. A southern voice answered, asking for the number of the licence plate, and assuring me that they would investigate. But for now all I could do was go home.

There was no one left on the Corso at that dead hour between eight and nine, when people are having dinner and haven’t yet emerged for the evening’s entertainment. Only the streetwalkers are out, bolder now, hips swaying, majestic as galleons. That night they were even humming; a couple spoke to me but I kept going. The windows of Rinascente, the Galleria: in front of the cafés some painted women, sitting with their knees on display. La Scala, with the usual merry-go-round of trams, taxis, cars.

But I didn’t feel like waiting for the tram on the narrow traffic island, in line with motionless, tense people. Trams went by, full of tired and drawn faces. I kept walking on Via Verdi, turned into Monte di Pietà, then along Via Cusani. Going off to the left was Via Rovello, with the Piccolo Teatro (to which I have a subscription) at the end and in the middle the regular prostitutes, the usual handful, the same for the past ten years, in position, like vultures. Since at that point the street is dark, they solicit you out loud, and if you don’t answer they insult you. I passed by almost at a run.

Maybe in that bar in Largo Cairoli … But there was no one. I stood there a while, looking at the posters outside the Olimpia, the photos at Le Roi, then I headed towards the castle. Farther on, the gates of the park were locked, and around it, at regular intervals, other women loiter. There are some pretty ones, and I didn’t fail to look at them, and let them know I was looking. But none answered: in that area there are no hotels nearby, so the streetwalkers accept only clients with cars.

I thought of my car, stolen, so without hesitation I cut across towards the bridge over the Ferrovie Nord tracks. There are always some young people in blue jeans and soldiers loitering there, talking and laughing. But as soon as they saw me they went silent and began to look at me. I seemed to hear a psst-psst. I went down the steps with my heart in my throat, and now I was in Via Venti Settembre. At one time certain hookers used to be stationed there, but I noticed that after the murder of Maria Maglia, who worked precisely in that area, they don’t stick around after dark.

My feet began to hurt and a cold wind had risen. I was worried about my sinusitis, but still I kept walking. After the barracks on Via Mascheroni there is a dark avenue that borders the dirt road next to Leone XIII, a school for priests; it also has a large theatre that shows movie-club films (I’ve been a few times, because Father Nazzareno Taddei is an intelligent person, I’m the first to acknowledge it). And right there are thousand-lire women, who usually get in the car but will also agree to follow you on to the dirt road beyond the barbed-wire fence, which is broken in one spot.