David Unger - The Mastermind

“So,” Ibrahim says triumphantly, “it will be just the three of us.”

Guillermo wonders what’s on the man’s mind. It has happened all too quickly. There is no way he planned it this way.

Maryam pushes some buttons on the dash, and instrumental Arabic music starts playing. A female, possibly Fairuz, starts singing. She has a soft and plaintive voice, and Guillermo can hear a lightly strummed lute in the background.

He can’t take his eyes off Maryam’s thick and lustrous hair. At one point she leans into the mirror to see behind her and their eyes meet quite by accident. Almost immediately she sets hers back on the road.

“Guillermo is an avid cyclist! That’s how he stays trim,” Ibrahim says, after an inordinately long silence. “If I didn’t have this pacemaker I would take up the sport myself.”

Before Guillermo can say a word Maryam laughs. “Father, I don’t think your old pacemaker is the reason you don’t bicycle. You could always get a training bike for your apartment. But if Guillermo thinks riding a bicycle in Guatemala City is a way to stay healthy, he doesn’t really value his life very much.”

“I live in Colonia España in Zone 14. It’s very safe there, with lots of gentle hills perfect for cycling. And the air is pure.”

“I’ve only driven through once. It felt like being in a private city,” Maryam says. “I’m told there’s an area in Colonia España full of modern mansions.”

“I wouldn’t know. Our apartment is average sized, really.”

“Isn’t that where Boris Santiago lives?”

Guillermo is surprised by the question. “The drug lord?” he asks, somewhat hesitantly.

“There would only be one. I read an article in El Periódico on the Guatemala Cycling Federation that he is an avid cyclist, and one of its principle donors. I thought you might know him since you live in the same area.”

“Maryam, please,” Ibrahim says.

“No, it’s okay,” Guillermo says. “I don’t have much in common with a drug lord.”

“Do you live there alone?” she asks, driving with both hands on the steering wheel.

Guillermo realizes that Maryam hasn’t noticed the huge wedding ring on his left hand. “No, with my wife Rosa Esther, my son Ilán, and my daughter Andrea. Now you know everything about me,” he replies somewhat provocatively, as if Ibrahim were not within earshot.

Guillermo imagines Maryam smiling. “I wouldn’t say that. Men are full of secrets,” she says. “I hope you won’t think I was prying. I only like to know who is coming to eat at my apartment.”

“Maryam, please —” Ibrahim interjects for a second time, almost playing the role of a referee.

Guillermo taps his client’s shoulder. “No offense taken.”

After an awkward silence Ibrahim says, “You must have strong legs, Guillermo. I mean, to do all that cycling.”

“Strong enough to get me up the hills. Riding is my passion and my joy. I love it. I like being alone. The exercise and the release of tension are added benefits.”

Maryam snickers aloud. Guillermo thinks she might actually have a sense of humor — or is she simply laughing at him? His imagination is getting the better of him. He is already putting them naked together in bed. Maybe this is the ideal situation. He and Maryam are married, both unhappily, if he’s reading her relationship with Samir correctly. Ideal for meeting up for an occasional fuck.

* * *

As soon as the car is parked in the basement of her building, Maryam races ahead to call the elevator. Guillermo can see that she is indeed wearing a tennis outfit; she does have nice legs, evenly tanned. And she has puffy pink balls on her heels, which somehow warms his heart.

Guillermo springs out of the car and opens the door for Ibrahim, who struggles out of the front bucket seat. They walk arm-in-arm to the elevator, where Maryam is pressing the button to hold the door open. Once inside, the elevator climbs slowly to the sixth floor. Maryam steps over to her father and holds his hand. She does not look at Guillermo, but he can see that she has dark eyebrows, a broad nose, and thick lips. Her eyes are green. When the elevator opens, they are facing a dark wooden door with an upside-down turquoise hand nailed to its middle.

“What’s that?” Guillermo asks.

“Fatima’s Hand. It keeps away the evil eye.” Maryam unlocks the door and welcomes them in. “Have a seat,” she says to Guillermo, indicating a brown leather chair, “while I change. My father will make you a drink.”

“What will it be, Guillermo?”

“Chivas on ice. And a soda on the side.”

“A man who drinks a man’s drink. . I’ll join you, though I shouldn’t,” Ibrahim says. He disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes and returns with a small silver tray with three glasses — Guillermo’s highball, with plenty of ice, and soda on the side, and for himself a Scotch, neat, in an ornate crystal goblet.

“To your health,” Guillermo says, raising his glass.

“ Fee sahitkum ,” Ibrahim answers.

“Guillermo, I hope you like Middle Eastern food,” Maryam’s voice rings out as she comes back into the living room. She has changed out of her tennis outfit and now wears a brown, fitted skirt and a floral yellow blouse, making her appear only slightly less suburban. There’s makeup on her face: her lips are dabbed pomegranate red, and purple mascara outlines her eyes. She is ebullient, almost girlishly so. She looks at least eight to ten years younger than she did in the car.

They sit at one end of a large dining room table. The cook has prepared a lemon and ginger soup, which is followed by a plate of grape leaves, hummus, and baba ghanoush. The main meal consists of rolled chopped lamb with plenty of mint-like parsley and flakey rice with peas.

The conversation is light-hearted and full of pleasantries. Maryam asks Guillermo to tell them about his family, which he is more than happy to do. When he mentions that he and Rosa Esther lived in New York City when he was studying at Columbia, Maryam says that she has cousins there. They operate a small store importing Middle Eastern delicacies for the large Arabic community in Brooklyn: apricot in flat sheets, tahini, all sorts of olives and dried fruit. Somewhere on Atlantic Avenue.

“Sahadi’s?” Guillermo offers.

“No, it’s called Aleppo Station. My brother Mansur married a Syrian woman. They threaten to visit us every year, but we are the ones who have visited them. Hiba,” Ibrahim calls into the kitchen, “bring us the grebes and some Turkish coffee at the tea table.”

They adjourn to a small table by a corner window, which has already been set with small cups and plates for dessert. Guillermo enjoys the cookies, which are made with bleached wheat flour, butter, and sugar. The Turkish coffee is strong and bitter.

Maryam’s hair falls across her face every time she drops her head to eat, forcing her to constantly brush her face and tuck her hair behind her lovely small ears. Guillermo would like to bite them, especially her right ear, which is oddly flattened.

Guillermo doesn’t recall feeling this happy in months.

In the succeeding month, Guillermo accompanies his client Ibrahim to his daughter’s apartment three more times for lunch. There is something kinetic building between them, but since they are both married and Ibrahim is always present, the attraction remains muted and almost hidden.

As the weeks pass, Guillermo learns that Ibrahim dislikes Samir immensely, though he approved of him at first. This aversion is partially the result of the guilt he feels for convincing Maryam to marry him. He just about calls Samir a liar for pretending he had lots of money saved up from his hardware store and would be a good provider for his daughter’s future. Ibrahim now realizes that his son-in-law has very little money and absolutely no ambition.