I followed Martin and Alberto to a dim room, where the laughter and the clicking of bottles and glasses became louder. We walked past a long bar aligned with stools and two bartenders in pressed white aprons hustling behind the counter.
We settled in one of the back tables. As the first round of aguardiente was passed, I studied my two companions. There was a camaraderie between them that hadn’t been apparent at the house, in a way I’d never experienced with women. With the women in my life—my mother, my friends, my assistant—I always had to choose my words carefully, lest I hurt their feelings. But these two men were completely at ease with each other. Martin explained that the two of them had known each other all their lives even though Alberto was three years younger than Martin.
“I tried to save this one from a life of celibacy, but he wouldn’t listen,” Martin said, rolling up his sleeves. “Now he has to pay the consequences with a sore wrist.”
It took me a moment to understand the implication, but when I did, I offered a chuckle of approval—not that this was my kind of humor—but it seemed to appeal to both of them.
Martin ran his fingers through his hair, laughing with gusto, while Alberto watched him with an amused smile. Martin refilled his glass and tried to add more puro, as he called it, to mine, but I shook my head.
Martin scoffed. “What? You’re worried about this cassock?” He nodded at Alberto. “He’s not going to hold it against you. He doesn’t go around counting sins.”
Well, if I was going to convince these men that I was one of them, then I had to act like them. If the priest was drinking, then I’d better do it too, even if I wasn’t fond of alcohol. Oh, no, was I going to turn into a drunk by the end of this experience?
“All right, just one more,” I said. “I’m trying to cut back.”
Martin filled my glass. “Why? You’re a free man now.”
The callousness of this man! Alberto widened his eyes. I must have done the same because Martin seemed taken aback.
“I’m sorry, hermano,” he told me. “It slipped out.” Martin dipped his chin down.
Alberto leaned forward, his bony fingers crossed on the table. “Excuse him, Don Cristóbal. Martin hasn’t had the best of luck with women so he thinks every man feels the same way he does.” He then turned to Martin. “If you don’t watch what you say, Don Cristóbal is going to think you’re a misogynist like Aristotle.”
“What does Aristotle have to do with anything?” Martin said.
“Incidentally, I was just reading today that he’d said women were biologically inferior to men. And you know how the Greeks had all those negative depictions of women, starting with Pandora.”
“Well, I’m not Greek nor do I hate women, clergyman. On the contrary.”
I wasn’t so sure I believed Martin. He was cold with my sisters and that comment he’d just thrown didn’t sound like he had a lot of respect for women. In fact, he seemed like the kind of man who wouldn’t be thrilled with a woman for a boss.
As Alberto continued his exploration of Greek mythology and their idiosyncrasies, I examined both men, wishing I could read their thoughts and hearts. Alberto appeared incapable of killing a fly, much less his older sister, but there was something odd about him. The religious men I’d met in the past were neither friendly nor easygoing. They had a somberness about them, a permanent state of melancholy, but Alberto didn’t appear to take himself too seriously. What could’ve prompted him to devote his life to the Church? I’d known a couple of families in Spain who forced their sons into the seminary when they were little. Some parents dreamt of having a religious son or daughter. Perhaps this had been the case with my brother.
Regardless, Alberto had no clear motive for killing me. He’d voluntarily given away his portion of the estate (or so Aquilino said). It made no sense that he would send someone to kill me after he’d renounced the money. Unless he was pretending to be humble and in reality, he had an evil plan to keep his portion and mine.
It didn’t seem likely.
I then turned my attention to Martin Sabater with his disheveled hair, unfastened tie, and purple circles under his eyes. He’d removed his jacket a long time ago and seemed perfectly at ease in this dump. Now, there was a dark soul. He drank, he cursed (as I’d heard him do several times since we’d sat down), and he didn’t seem to have much respect for women. In addition, he carried a gun.
But how would he benefit from my death? He still wouldn’t inherit anything. Unless he’d reached an agreement with one of my sisters? I couldn’t recall anything peculiar in his behavior toward either one of them. No strange looks or whispers. On the contrary, Angélica didn’t seem to like him much, and Catalina had been indifferent to him. And yet, if someone in this place appeared capable of harming others, it was this man.
“What do you think, Don Cristóbal?” Martin said.
The two of them were staring at me.
“Sorry, you were saying?”
“Alberto here wanted to know whether you think goodness is innate or learned.”
I gave this some thought. Someone like Cristóbal or my mother? Innately good. Me, I wasn’t so sure. The fact that I’d persuaded my husband to leave everything behind to follow my dream and that I was deceiving all these people—both the innocent and the guilty—didn’t speak wonders about my inherent moral virtues.