“Both.” I turned to Martin. “And you?”
“I think the question is too simplistic—no offense, hermano,” he told Alberto. “Goodness itself is subjective. What you consider good may not be the same thing I do. Is goodness behaving according to societal norms or laws imposed by either a government or the clergy? Is goodness becoming self-sacrificial? Because there may be a conflict there between what you want and what others do. But what makes other people’s wants or needs more important than yours? What happens if you’re good to others, but not to yourself? Wouldn’t motivation play a part, too? What if you act like a good person, but inside, all you want is to kill the world? What if you’re doing it just so others think you’re good? So, the real question is what makes someone good, their actions or their motivations?” Martin split the remains of the bottle between Alberto and me. “What do you say, Padre?”
“Actions.”
“But isn’t your God supposed to know what’s in the heart of every human?” Martin said.
“So what?” I said. “If you have evil thoughts, but don’t act on them, why should you be punished for them?”
“Who’s talking about punishment? I’m talking about moral theory here.”
Alberto crossed his hands behind his head and watched us with a tight-lipped smile. His pleased expression told me he’d been a troublemaker as a child.
“Well,” I said after giving his words some thought. “I think good and evil lives inside every person. It’s a struggle we all live with. Whatever tendency one favors is what we are, I suppose.” I held his stare for a long moment. I was surprised that someone like Martin, someone who seconds ago I’d judged as a brute and a woman-hater, would have the mind and eloquence to speak about a complex philosophical matter with such intensity.
“Well,” Alberto said, standing. “I’m afraid it’s time for me to go back to my daily struggle with my own demons. Don Cristóbal, it has been an absolute pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand toward me. Was I supposed to kiss it or shake it? I chose the latter.
“Likewise.”
“What on earth? You introduce a thorny subject and then you leave us?” Martin said. “Don’t go, hermano. It’s still early. I’ll drive you in fifteen minutes, I promise.”
“Don’t bother, Martin. It’s a beautiful night to walk.” He turned to me. “Next time we meet, I’d like to hear about my sister Purificación.”
For reasons I couldn’t describe, Alberto’s comment gave me the urge to cry. I’d become so sensitive since Cristóbal’s passing. Perhaps it was the aguardiente.
I stared after my brother as he left the bar, about to ask Martin if he lived in town—that might solve my imminent problem of where to spend the night and how to get to the bank early—when two women approached us. What now? I was so exhausted—all I wanted was to sleep. But men apparently had more energy than us. Martin opened his arms to one of the women, a lanky one with the lavender strap of her dress drooping over her arm and unruly charcoal hair, who promptly sat on his lap.
“Christ on the cross!” she said. “I thought that priest would never leave!”
Martin whispered into her ear. She looked at me, then turned to say something to her friend.
Oh, no, what awaited me? Swallowing, I glanced at the other woman, standing a step away from me. The woman watched me with a smile, twirling one of the loose tendrils by her ear. This one was heavier, short, and had applied at least a pound of rouge to her cheeks.
“Would you like some company?” she said.
“I’m fine, thank you.” I looked at the front door, longingly. Perhaps I could still catch my brother and seek refuge at the monastery or wherever he lived.
Despite my response, she sat on my lap. ?Madre mía!, she was so heavy my legs were about to break.
“Mi amor, there’s no reason to be lonely.”
The woman, who said her name was Carmela, cupped my chin with her hands.
“You’re adorable. Look at that dainty beard!”
Adorable and dainty weren’t exactly manly compliments. I hoped Martin hadn’t heard. I pulled back as much as I could but there was nowhere to go.
“But why are you so tense? You’re with friends.”
Through the space between her curls, I could see that Martin was kissing the other woman. For the love of everything holy, how did one politely dismiss a prostitute? As a woman, I’d never confronted such a dilemma.
“Excuse me, Carmela,” I said. “It’s late and I have to be some—Wait! What are you doing?”
The woman was kissing, yes, kissing my neck!
“You smell so good,” she said, “like a real man.”
A real man? Yes, good thing she reminded me. A real man wouldn’t push a woman away from him in horror. As much as I wanted to escape her loving claws, I had an image to protect. I couldn’t let Martin suspect anything.
Her hand cruised along my inner thigh to my groin. I yelped. Fortunately, Martin was so immersed in the heat of passion that he didn’t seem to hear me.
“Where is it?” Carmela whispered.
How could I explain that “it” was nothing but a sock and it had moved from its proper spot?
“Wait,” I said. “Isn’t there a more private place where we could go?”
She pulled back. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Collecting the skirt of her purple dress, she stood up and offered me a hand. In a pause between kisses, Martin winked at me.