David Unger - The Mastermind

With Maryam it had started the same way. She was the daughter of his client Ibrahim Khalil. Unlike Rosa Esther, she had a fierce and magnetic practical intelligence. And her beauty: her dark hair sparkling like ebony filigree, green eyes, and a mouth that turned down whenever she doubted what Guillermo was proclaiming — which was often. Maryam became the love of his life, and he willingly foreswore seeing other women to be exclusively with her. But how can you be with “the love of your life,” when you’re married, when she’s the married daughter of your best client, and when your social standing depends on being a good husband, father, and community model?

Here’s where his lawyerly thinking comes in handy. He has argued in civil case after civil case that while the law cannot be circumvented, circumstances, more than strict adherence to legal strictures, determines culpability or fiduciary responsibility. Similarly, the marriage contract is valid by decree, yet he can have girlfriends as long as he fulfills his marital, filial, and community responsibilities to the letter of the law. And why not? His affairs never hurt anyone. Moreover, Rosa Esther had begun denying him his conjugal rights.

And he swore fidelity to Maryam.

Guillermo opens his eyes and smiles at his cleverness. Guatemala is a country where allegiance to law, family, and religion matter equally, so church and state often agree. Every political leader speaks about maintaining the “social fabric.” Forty-four years of armed conflict can be neutralized by a document that insists on constitutional statutes which have never been even remotely upheld. The Peace Accords marked a return to social stability. Stability for whom? Soldiers ceding power to return to the barracks? Fractured Indian families with thousands of dead relatives reclaiming arable land near villages that no longer exist? Guerrillas laying down arms to attend trade schools where they can learn to fix cars or splice electrical wires? Drugged orphans foregoing their knives and guns to volunteer to feed paraplegics in medical centers throughout the country?

He turns his head to his night stand. The clock says eleven something. He should begin the day. He thinks: My life is wretched: I have nothing to live for. Even Braulio mocks me. Before Maryam was murdered with her father, she was going to leave her husband Samir to live with me. We were going to do a thousand things together — walk on beaches, climb volcanoes, stay in bed all day drinking and making love. All destroyed by a ball of fire. Since then I have lost clients like pearls unstrung from a necklace. My mother, and especially my father, would be ashamed of me. Rosa Esther is happy in Mexico City, far away from me, and my children no longer care if I live or die. Why should they?

Sweat like condensation on the walls of a cave breaks out on Guillermo’s face. As soon as he stands up, he feels dizzy and decides to crawl to the bathroom. His heart thumps wildly in his chest. When he reaches the toilet, his mouth opens and a stream of alcohol and all the bits of his cruel, undigested life pour into the white ceramic bowl.

It’s approaching noon on no particular Sunday. When is he going to stop abusing himself until he passes out?

From somewhere outside the building he hears a group of kids singing “Humpty Dumpty” in English. It makes him want to cry.

He vomits again, trembling, assured that this is the time for all the king’s horses and all the king’s men to put his life together again.

It might be too late. The knot in his stomach is unrelenting. His whole body is trembling as he feels a wrench tightening in his gut. He vomits one more time and then howls.

He won’t fight it any more. He will do exactly what Miguel Paredes wants him to do, even if that means he won’t be around to watch the world explode.

Let the fun begin.

Every afternoon when classes end at the Colegio Americano in Vista Hermosa, Guillermo hitches a ride downtown with his chauffeur-driven friends. The driver drops them off at the Portal del Comercio amid the crush of polluting public buses, and they make their way between the stands of cheap clothes and toys lining the arcade to the Klee Pharmacy and El Cairo, where the promenade starts. They stroll the length of Sixth Avenue to the San Francisco Church looking into shop windows and cafés, hoping to catch sight of one of their female classmates drinking a Coke or having ice cream at one of the sidewalk cafés. If, after a block or two, no one has been sighted, they settle down at a window table of some dive to drink beer and talk, gossip. To see and be seen.

The truly rich girls park themselves at Café Paris, Restaurante Peñalba, or L’Bonbonniere near the Pan American Hotel, and drink large Cokes through straws. They are the shapely and more stylish versions of their mothers, many of whom now wear Reeboks and sweatpants when they go downtown. The boys — dressed in their Farah pants, Gant shirts, and wingtip shoes — are younger versions of their businessmen fathers, without the mustaches.

The boys in Guillermo’s group like going to the Fu Lu Sho because it’s dark and the food is cheap. The restaurant is angular, with little round tables and booths with red upholstery. The boys act like big shots for about an hour, but the girls never come in because they aren’t interested in boys pretending their parents don’t have money. Then around five they scramble off to meet a mother or father or aunt or uncle, who gives them a ride home to Los Arcos or Vista Hermosa or Simeón Cañas. This is the daily pattern now, awaiting graduation.

Guillermo lingers behind because he will hitch a ride with his father, who leaves his lamp store, La Candelaria, at precisely six. For that one hour from five to six, he sits alone and watches the secretaries and stenographers who work in one of the Edificio Engel businesses come down for a Fanta when they’re cut loose at five. He fantasizes about hooking up with one of them, one who might want to join him for a beer and egg rolls. He ogles the ridge of their breasts popping out of their patterned Dacron dresses. Acrylic sweaters are tied around their shoulders to fend off the night air — he loves their dark, shapely legs, their cheap high heel shoes, the red lips with too much gloss. If they would only look at him! But these older girls don’t even know high school boys exist.

Fridays are different. Guillermo and his friends hurry downtown to see the four o’clock feature at the Lux — the latest Paul Newman or Robert Redford film — or they go over to the Capitol Mall to play video games under the haze of cigarette smoke.

* * *

In March he meets Perla Cortés at La Juguetería, a toy store. He’s there buying a new soccer ball. She’s getting a plastic dump truck for her baby brother. She’s a “neighborhood girl” (the term used for someone whose parents aren’t rich) in the tenth grade at the Inglés Americano, a second-tier high school. They talk, go have a mixta and a Coke at Frankfurts, and immediately she becomes his first steady girlfriend. They begin meeting on Fridays and going to the movies, since her mother works as a nurse until six at the Cedar of Lebanon Hospital on Eighth Avenue and 2nd Street. He takes her to the movies at the Cine Caitol and buys luneta seats, always near the back, where he can put his arm around her.

As the credits are rolling on their first date he accidentally brushes her firm breasts while standing up. She actually purrs, pulls him down, and snuggles closer. He feels an erection forming and puts a hand on her left leg. She happily takes his hand and brings it to her panties so he can feel how wet she is. She opens her legs, slips his hand under the band toward her pubis. She directs his forefinger inside of her and begins squirming and grinding, letting out little whimpers. At some point she pulls his penis out of his pants and strokes him till he comes mostly on the cinema floor.