I drove out from the car park at the Hotel Napoli, looped round the piazza to set the shadow of Vesuvius at my back, and headed away from the town. The brash neon glare of signs and store windows soon fell behind me. The early evening bustle of the restaurant district gave way to derelict warehouses and factories. It wasn’t long before even those empty shells and facades disappeared, leaving me amid open fields.

The night was cold. At every turn and corner, old oil drums, filled with wood, blazed by the side of the road. The girls were there in the flickering glare of the flames. They huddled close to the fires, not only to keep warm, but within its light. They stood just on the edge of the glow from the drums; partly hidden in the shadow of the night, yet visible enough to anyone driving past. Their bare legs, and the short skirts and low-cut tops that they wore, proclaimed their trade to every passing vehicle.

Puttoni Negri, they were called, black whores, though they weren’t all black. The white prostitutes of Naples worked the hotels, apartment blocks, parks and streets of the city, and guarded their territory jealously. These poor wretches, immigrants from North Africa, Serbia or Albania, were forced to turn their tricks beyond the suburbs. They huddled close to their makeshift braziers: some alone; others in groups of two or three, more for the feeling of safety it gave than for companionship. A few fires burned with nobody in sight tending them, but inevitably there would be a car parked nearby in the dark.

I drove slowly, looking at each woman carefully as I passed. The beam of my headlights cut through the night like a flaming sword, bathing them in light for a brief moment. None of the girls paid me any attention; somehow realising through instinct or experience, I know not which, that they weren’t the one I sought. A glimpse of naked flesh, the flare of a cigarette being lit, then they were plunged into darkness once more.

I’d driven perhaps two miles and nearly a score of fires down the road before I saw her. She was on her own, standing close to the brazier, warming her hands. With her hair tied in bunches, and the white blouse, short pale-green skirt and white socks that she wore, she could have been a schoolgirl. I guessed that was the impression she wanted to give. Her head turned to follow me as I slowed, but she didn’t move from the warmth of the fire until I stopped. Only then did she stir, walking nonchalantly toward me, as though I might be there just to ask directions.

This was the girl I had been hunting for. I was close enough now to see her clearly. She wasn’t pretty, though perhaps she had once been so. Barely seventeen, scrawny and undernourished, the life she led had already taken its toll on her youth. The only things remarkable about her were her eyes. Dark and hooded, they were filled with an eternity of suffering, yet their gaze seemed to pierce through to my very soul. As I looked at her, those practised eyes scanned me in turn, taking note of the Armani suit and the Rolex watch that I wore. The barest hint of a smile, or perhaps it was a sneer, curled at her lips. It was obvious that I could pay.

"One hundred thousand lira, Mister; I give full hour."

It surprised me for a moment that she’d spoken in broken English rather than Italian; then I realised that she’d seen the Avis emblem in the rear window of the car. A hire car: I was obviously not from this area, perhaps not even from this country. She probably thought I was a businessman visiting one of the run-down factories in the area, looking for an evening’s entertainment after a day trying to sell something nobody wanted. Naturally she used the language common to businessmen the world over.

I made no effort to enlighten her; simply nodded and gestured to the door. She didn’t move; not until I drew out my wallet. Then she slipped into the seat beside me, watching like a hawk as I counted the money onto the dashboard. I’d barely put the last bill down before she snatched it away, counted it herself to be certain, and relaxed. Her lips twisted into a smile, but her eyes radiated only contempt.

"Drive in field behind hedge. Is private there."

As she spoke, she ran one slender hand slowly up the inside of her thighs. Her short skirt rose even higher, revealing a frill of white lace. In the dimness of the car, the pale colour stood out clearly against the dusky hue of her flesh. My eyes were drawn to the dark cleft between her legs. I could feel myself getting aroused. For a few moments, I savoured the sensations. Yves Donnadieu might be a womaniser, but sitting in a car with a teenage prostitute was a new experience for me.

Reaching up, I flicked on the interior light. Its pale glow lit up more than I wanted; the girl had already started to unbutton her blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra. I needed to suppress my passions, to remember that I was here on business rather than for pleasure.

"If you would care to look in the back of the car, Signorina, there is something I should like you to see."

She paused mid-button, suddenly suspicious.

"No toys. I not do kinky." She stopped, as the realisation that I had spoken in fluent Italian, even with the Neapolitan accent, struck her.

"It’s not anything like that, I assure you."

Hesitantly, she looked over her shoulder, then reached back to pick up the artist’s portfolio that lay on the rear seat. He face expressed puzzlement as she fumbled with the catch to open it. I looked away; I already knew what she would find. There was a sound of indrawn breath as she saw the pictures. Then she was scrabbling at the door. I was glad I’d had the foresight to lock it.

"Don’t be afraid Signorina Vaccarro. I won’t harm you. Button yourself up please. I have paid for an hour of your time, and would like to spend it talking to you. If at the end of that hour you wish to return to your lonely post by the roadside, I shall not try to stop you. In the meanwhile, though, I have a proposition that I think will interest you."

She was still fearful, but at least she had stopped trying to escape. She didn’t even show any surprise at my use of her name. In the stillness that followed, I could hear the flutter of her breath like the sound of wind rustling over soft, downy feathers, her heart pounding like the beat of wings,

I had expected her to speak, to show surprise, to protest. She said nothing, and I turned to look at her once more. She sat like a rabbit mesmerised by the gaze of a cobra, staring at the drawings. One showed a grieving mother standing at the foot of the cross which held the pain-wracked form of her dead son. Another depicted the tortured face of Judas Iscariot as he hung from the tree. The third was of two angels standing before a tomb, explaining to a group of mourning women that there was no longer anyone within. They were little more than sketches really, yet the expressions on the face of every character, their very poise, conveyed so much emotion.

The expression on her own face was one of fear, mingled with rapture. She was an artist, and a brilliant one who clearly loved to use her talent. Yet here she was now, having dropped out from art college, selling herself to bring in money for her family. Every one of the whores along the roadside probably had an equally sad story to tell, but Isabel Vaccarro was the one I had come for tonight.

"Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Yves Donnadieu, and I am director of the Galerie Touzain in Paris. I would like to commision a work from you"