“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!”