David Unger - The Mastermind

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Ibrahim’s textile business is doing well and needs oversight but not daily intervention. He feels he has a good management team, and the foremen and workers appear to be happy. He has blocked attempts at union organizing because he believes that business owners should have full say regarding the decisions that involve their primary investments — the workers and the products they make. He isn’t interested in sharing power.

On the day he meets Guillermo, Ibrahim is wearing a blue jacket, checkered gray slacks, a blue shirt, and a striped black-and-red tie. Guillermo can’t imagine who has dressed him. When he turns seventy-four, he thinks, maybe he won’t care what he looks like either. Nothing the man wears seems to match.

They have a good first meeting. Ibrahim trusts first impressions, and he thinks Guillermo is intelligent and, more importantly, an upright man. He gives the lawyer two folders filled with ledger documents and bank transfers and says to him, “Guard these with your life.”

Guillermo nods. The phone rings and Ibrahim answers. To give him privacy, Guillermo takes the opportunity to go to the bathroom. When he comes back, Ibrahim says, “Guillermo, my daughter Maryam is picking me up in ten minutes. I’m going to have lunch with her in her apartment in Oakland. I would be pleased if you would join us.”

Guillermo knows that Rosa Esther is waiting for him at home. She decided that morning to have the maid cook chayotes stuffed with canned crab meat, even though the meat is usually salty and dry despite mayonnaise dressing. Why did Guillermo even think that someone who knows nothing about food could instruct their maid Lucia to cook?

“Shouldn’t you ask your daughter?”

Ibrahim waves an arm in the air. “She’s always thrilled to meet one of my new associates, especially one as trim as you. Maryam admires athletic people,” he says politely.

Guillermo smiles. It is a strange comment, somewhat enticing. “Well, I used to be an avid cyclist.” He is in good shape, but hardly athletic anymore. “Let me check with my wife — she’s expecting me for lunch.”

He excuses himself and goes into the hallway to call Rosa Esther. He tells her that a last-minute business engagement has trumped their lunch plans.

“Will you be home for dinner?” she asks. “I want to know because I’ve received an invitation from Canche Mirtala to have dinner and play bridge with her friends tonight.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Guillermo, I don’t want to waste another evening waiting for you to decide if your evening plans include me or Araceli Betancourt.”

His temples throb, but he ignores her comment. “Why don’t you go to Canche’s? If I finish early, I’ll meet you there. If not I can always fix something for myself at home.”

Rosa Esther hangs up without saying goodbye. Twice already she has warned him that she will take the kids and go live with her uncle in Mexico if he doesn’t break off his chain of affairs. When she last made this threat, Guillermo complied, taking a break from his cavorting in order to keep his children close. He told himself that he would be faithful to Rosa Esther — but this only lasted until the next tight skirt rolled on by. Sex has become a drug, a good drug that makes him feel powerful, alive, and renewed. He is a devotee to erotic encounters.

When Guillermo comes back into the office, Khalil has already put a gray Stetson on his head and is standing by his desk.

“Ibrahim, I would love to join you.” He is curious to know more about Khalil’s daughter, whom he imagines will be around forty.

The old Lebanese man’s eyes light up. “It will be a party,” he says cheerily.

There’s an armed guard at the entryway to the textile factory — security is a top concern in Guatemala. It is common knowledge that for a mere five thousand quetzales, three vetted guards can decide to take their coffee break at the same time so a kidnapping crew can carry off a heist.

When the two men step out onto the street, Guillermo sees a black Mercedes parked in front of the building. The driver’s tinted window rolls down and before he can see a face he hears a female voice calling out tentatively, “Papá?” The appearance of a stranger has troubled her.

“Don’t worry, Maryam. Guillermo is an associate of mine. Actually, a new lawyer. I’ve invited him to join us for lunch,” he says, walking over to the front passenger seat.

“You should have said something when I called,” his daughter reprimands softly. “I would have planned a larger lunch.”

“Guillermo’s a light eater. That’s how he stays so trim,” her father replies as he opens the car door. With his head, he signals for Guillermo to sit in the back behind him. “Let me move the seat up,” he says, pushing a button on the side of his door.

“You don’t need to,” Guillermo says, opening his door. Ibrahim is a shrunken man who probably wasn’t very big to begin with. From his seat, Guillermo can see the back of Maryam’s head. And of course he can smell her Coco Mademoiselle perfume.

Maryam has thick black hair that falls over her neck and the headrest. This, along with the profile of her right cheek, is all he sees of her, since she won’t turn around to look at him. He can feel the icy mist of anger forming between the front and back seats like a glass partition. It is obvious that she is bothered by her father’s last-minute invitation. Guillermo has half a mind to simply get out and call for a rain check, but something holds him back.

Maryam starts the engine and begins driving out of the lot. Finally Ibrahim breaks the silence and says, “Maryam, Guillermo Rosensweig is helping me figure out where all the money is going at Banurbano. I want you to be nice to him.”

She actually humpfs as she zooms across the gravel of the parking lot, dousing Guillermo’s parked car in dust. “I am nice to everyone.” She pulls up to the fifteen-foot gate that encloses the factory, the offices, the loading dock, and the garbage dumpsters, and gives the attendant a ten-quetzal note.

“Maryam, he is my employee.”

“Whatever, Papá. I don’t want him to forget how nice I am to him, should a kidnapper want to make him a rich man one day.”

“Please. Fulgencio has worked for me for twenty years.”

“Precisely,” she says, striking the steering wheel for emphasis. “He doesn’t need much convincing to know he needs a change.”

She rolls her window up and turns to Guillermo. “Sorry for making you feel less than invited. Papá knows that I want him to give me some advance warning when he invites someone to my apartment. It might be a mess or the cook may not have made enough food, but it’s also a question of safety.”

The guard opens the steel gate and Maryam proceeds rapidly over the speed bumps, turns left, and drives the six blocks to Roosevelt Avenue. Guillermo tries to get a better look at her through the rearview mirror. She seems anything but radiant. She is wearing a white T-shirt; her tanned face sports no makeup; her lips are colorless.

Guillermo imagines she is wearing a short white skirt and matching sneakers with puffy balls on the heels, and that she has been playing tennis all morning. Typical Guatemalan wifely style. And he is sure she hasn’t showered this morning because he can smell her sweat winning the battle over her perfume. He wonders if she has shapely legs, and this causes his penis to stir.

Before he can say a word, Ibrahim asks his daughter: “Will Samir be joining us for lunch?”

“No,” Maryam says. “Something’s always cropping up at the hardware store. Or maybe he has a meeting with his Lebanese Committee friends.” Samir must be her husband. Her lukewarm response implies there’s trouble in the marriage. Maybe this Samir is just like him, prone to lying and engaged in multiple affairs.