Free Of Love and Shadows by Isabel Allende Page A

Irene did not finish her dessert, but left a bite on the plate.
    â€œThat way I can savor it later in my memory,” she explained. “And now tell me about yourself. . . .”
    In a few words, since by nature and professional training he was more inclined to listen attentively than to talk, he told her that for some time he had not found employment as a psychologist and was looking for any respectable job. Photography had seemed a good possibility, but since he had not wanted to be like those amateurs who end up begging to photograph weddings, baptisms, and birthdays, he had come to the magazine.
    â€œTomorrow I’m going to interview some prostitutes. Do you want to come along and give it a try?” Irene asked.
    Francisco accepted on the spot, brushing aside a shadow of sadness, thinking how much easier it was to earn a living by clicking a shutter than it was by placing his experience and hard-won knowledge at the service of his fellow man.
    When the waiter brought their check, Irene opened her purse to pay, but Francisco’s father had given him what he called the strict upbringing of a caballero : courtesy, after all, had never stood in the way of revolutionary fervor. To the surprise and displeasure of the young journalist, Francisco reached for the check, ignoring the advances the liberationists had made in their campaigns for equality.
    â€œYou’re out of work, let me pay,” she insisted. In the following months, the check would be one of their few sources of argument.
    Soon Francisco Leal had the first indication of the drawbacks of his new occupation. The next day, he accompanied Irene to the red-light district of the city, certain that she had made previous contacts. This was not so. They reached the district at dusk and wandered through the streets with such a lost air that a number of potential clients accosted the reporter, asking her price. After a period of observation, Irene approached a brunette who was firmly ensconced on a street corner beneath the light from multicolor neon signs.
    â€œExcuse me, señorita. Are you a whore?”
    Francisco prepared to defend Irene in the justifiable eventuality that the brunette should hit Irene over the head with her pocketbook, but nothing like that happened. On the contrary, she further inflated her breasts like two balloons ready to explode from her blouse and smiled, gladdening the night with the gleam of a gold tooth.
    â€œAt your service, honey,” she replied.
    Irene explained why they were there, and the whore offered her collaboration with the good will people feel for the press. This attracted the curiosity of her companions as well as a few passersby. In a few minutes a group had formed, causing a certain urban congestion. Francisco suggested that they clear the way before a patrol car arrived, which happened every time more than three persons congregated without authorization from Police Headquarters. The brunette led them to the Chinese Mandarin, where the amiable conversation continued, now with the madam and other girls of the house, while the clients waited patiently and even offered to participate in the interview on condition that their anonymity be respected.
    Francisco was not accustomed to asking intimate questions outside his consulting office or without therapeutic goals in mind, and he had to smile as Irene Beltrán conducted her long interrogation: how many men per night, what was the total pay, the special prices for students and old men, their diseases, sorrows, and abuse, the retirement age, and how much did the percentage increase for pimps and police? From her lips this questioning acquired the pristine air of innocence. By the time she finished her work, she was on excellent terms with the ladies of the night, and Francisco feared that she might decide to move to the Chinese Mandarin. Later he learned that she was always this way, putting heart and soul into anything she did. In the months