I told Maria Teresa to inform the gentleman that I could see him in ten minutes, but couldn’t spare him much time because I had an important meeting.

People think that lawyers often have important meetings.

Ten minutes later the gentleman entered. He had long black hair, a long black beard and goggling eyes. He sat down and leaned towards me, with his elbows on the desk.

For a moment I was certain that he would say, “I have just killed my wife and mother-in-law. They’re downstairs in the back of the car. Luckily I have an estate car. What are we going to do about it, Avvocato?”

Nothing of the sort. He had a van from which he sold grilled frankfurters and hamburgers. The health inspectors had confiscated it because hygienic conditions inside it were pretty much those of the sewers of Benares.

This bearded character wanted his van back. He knew that I was a smart lawyer because he had been told so by one of his mates, a client of mine. With a kind of sickening conspiratorial smirk, he gave me the name of a drug pusher for whom I had managed to negotiate a disgracefully light sentence.

I demanded an exorbitant advance, and from his trouser pocket he produced a roll of 50,000- and 100,000- lire notes.

Please don’t give me the ones with mayonnaise stains, I prayed resignedly.

He thumbed out the sum I had asked for, and left me the confiscation document and all the other documents. No, he didn’t want a receipt: what would I do with it, Avvocato? Another conspiratorial smirk. We tax evaders understand one another, don’t we?

Years before, I had quite enjoyed my work. Now, on the contrary, it made me feel slightly sick. And when I came across people like this hamburger merchant I felt sicker still.

I felt I deserved a meal of frankfurters served by this Rasputin and to land up in Casualty. In wait for me there I would find Dr Carrassi.