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.
“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?”