David Unger - The Mastermind

“Yes, Samir.” There are tears again in Maryam’s eyes. It is an existential moment: she never thought it would be this hard to ask for her freedom.

“From the moment you leave me, because you are the one who must leave this house, I will not give you a single cent of support. What do you say to that?”

“I understand these conditions.” She knows she will initially have to rely on her father or even Guillermo for support, but she also knows she has the talent, the skill, the perseverance to live on her own, without props. She can admit her sins, her inability to love him, but she will not crawl to him. How stupid it was to put all the money in their name, sanctified by a marriage contract. “But I must tell you again that I am not happy. Isn’t my happiness worth anything?”

Samir now stands up. He wants to lord it over her, to express his triumph. “Do you have a rich lover? Is that what it is? It’s the most common thing, and it’s what I have suspected all these months. Some younger, stupid-looking man, I would imagine, with sentimental eyes, who is as common as you are.”

“You know nothing about it,” Maryam flares back, and immediately realizes she has said too much.

“Ah, so it is as I expected. I have exposed a raw nerve in my little hamama,” he says in a surly voice. “It must be someone I know. Yes, that’s it. Someone from our church. A Lebanese man half my age. Or perhaps an associate of your father’s?”

“There’s no one,” Maryam says, trembling, certain that her voice betrays her words. She has allowed Samir to unhinge her.

“Oh, but there must be. You would not have the courage to confess your lovelessness unless you had someone else. I’ve suspected something all along, knowing how untrustworthy you are. Why, you are just like your father.”

“Please, don’t bring him into this. My father has nothing to do with it.”

He grabs her wrist. The magazine with Obama on the cover falls from her lap to the floor. He is twisting her arm with his own spindly limb. “Do you think Hiba is beholden to you, simply because you are both women? She has served my family through two wives for thirty years. Do you think I’ve not known all along what has gone on here while I have been hard at work? That lawyer must have had an easy time fooling your father with his charm and his arguments. Or has your papá enjoyed taking on the role of a pimp so that the two of you could create a situation in which your legs, must I say it, are spread wide open to a stranger even as your heart is now closed to me?”

She sees the venom in his eyes. Maryam’s wrist is hurting and she is afraid. It is not going well at all. But she’s physically strong enough to push Samir away, back down into his seat, where he falls and starts laughing.

“You are a sharmoota. Like Gomer in the Bible.”

“You wretched man! Calling me names won’t accomplish anything.”

His eyes are shining. “You are as evil as Tamar, although as far as I know you have not committed incest with your own father. You are not that depraved, I suppose.”

Maryam is in tears, she is trembling. She runs into the hall bathroom, locks the door, and texts Guillermo: Something awful has happened with Samir. I must see you tonight. I will text you when I can get out of here. Please don’t turn me away.

She puts the phone down on the sink counter and washes her face. She scrubs the back of her ears as if to clean away the poisonous words Samir has spoken. She knows she is not innocent, but she is not a whore. Her hands are still shaking as she tries to put on fresh lipstick and dab a bit of mascara on her wet eyes. Five minutes go by, but it feels like three days. What is taking Guillermo so long? Maybe he’s talking to his children in Mexico via Skype or has fallen asleep after too much drinking.

She texts him a second time: Guillermo, please answer me. Now.

Through the bathroom door, she hears Nasri’s voice again, fuller and more plaintive than before. She can’t understand why Samir likes her singing, since it is so over-the-top with romance and emotion, while he seems to have wilted like a prune and paradoxically developed a heart of stone.

What had she been thinking when she married him? That she would be happy with a life of order, boredom, discipline, obedience? That marrying a respectable older man was better than living alone?

She opens the door, goes quickly to the hall closet, and grabs a sweater jacket. She has to get out of the house, go somewhere, anywhere, whether or not Guillermo calls or texts her back. Maybe she will go down to the car and drive around the hilly campus of the Universidad del Valle, where it is safe and quiet. There’s a lookout at the very top where college students go to kiss. Maybe there, protected by a crowd of lovers, she will find peace.

Before she closes the apartment door, she cocks her ears. Samir is actually trying to sing along with Assala Nasri, as if their two voices could form the same anthem of lost love.

While Maryam waits for the elevator, her tongue itching, her cell phone vibrates. One new message.

Ven, mi corazón!

As soon as Maryam is out of the house, Samir ponders his next step. It is only a little after nine, still early, so he decides to call his father-in-law. Ibrahim will not be happy to hear that his daughter has confessed her sin and is about to be cast out of the house by her affronted husband. A scandal in the small, tight-knit Guatemalan Lebanese community would be considered unseemly.

“Ibrahim, this is Samir.”

“Why, Samir, so nice of you to call. I was just reading in the Beirut Times —”

“How long have you known that your sharmoota daughter was having an affair with your very own lawyer?”

Ibrahim is silent for a couple of seconds. “You have no right to use that kind of language when referring to my daughter. Your words also cast a dark shadow on me. You owe me an apology, Samir.”

“I have proof that your daughter is a harlot.”

“Please, do not refer to my daughter, to your wife, with that kind of language.”

“My language is not the issue here. Let’s focus on the facts. Maryam has been carrying on an affair with your lawyer behind my back for several months and you have not only known about it, but have actually encouraged it—”

“I have done no such thing!” Ibrahim interrupts, his voice rising. “The idea that she and Guillermo are doing anything together repels me.”

“Your daughter is a whore.”

“I must ask you again not to use that kind of language. I know you’re angry, and to be honest, Samir, if what you say is true, then I will be deeply disappointed in Maryam. But I can assure you that this is the first I’ve heard of it. Please temper your words.”

“This has been taking place right under your nose, akhi.”

“Toz feek. I have played no role in encouraging it.”

“You did, Ibrahim, by welcoming that Jew into your life and into your home.”

Ibrahim is again repelled by Samir’s incendiary language. “To begin with, Guillermo Rosensweig is not Jewish. And if he were, you, more than anyone else, should know that it would make no difference to me. I think you need to calm down before you say something else I will not be able to forgive.”

“You were complicit.”

“Samir, you’re treading on very thin ice.” Ibrahim hangs up on his son-in-law, realizing he’s heard enough.

* * *

Guillermo is reading when the guardhouse buzzes to announce that he has a guest, a woman, and she’s coming up to see him. He knows it’s Maryam because of her text message. She’ll let herself in since he’s given her the passkey from the basement parking lot to his apartment on the top floor.