David Unger - The Mastermind

Maryam drops to the ground, squeezes her eyes tight, and waits for a bullet to pierce her.

One thing that can’t be disputed about Guatemala is that mistakes — very serious ones — are always happening. It is almost like a national epidemic, a defining characteristic, a part of the genetic makeup of the population whether you are Indian, Latino, or Caucasian. The wrong people are kidnapped, the wrong people are killed — there is an ineptitude that is endemic to the country. This extends to even the smallest of matters, like the purchase of fruits or vegetables.

For example, you go to a hardware store and order a fixture for your stove but get something more suited to your refrigerator. You order a Jaguar XJL — illegally, of course, to avoid import taxes — and receive an XKL instead. There is nothing you can do to rectify the mistake unless you want to return the purchase and risk being arrested.

You can have an invoice stating what you have ordered — say a table lamp with a green shade — but in the end you have to pay for what you get: a pole lamp with yellow plastic jackets. Even if it isn’t exactly what you wanted, you are better off simply zippering your lips and keeping what you have, which is almost what you purchased. Not quite.

This is just the way it is.

* * *

Guillermo is in a meeting with Favio Altalef, a client who is hoping to establish a consulting firm to help existing factories conform to the new environmental laws regulating the release of fossil fuels into the atmosphere. Favio is an engineer with the ambition to run his own company. He knows a lot about converting waste to harmless gases, but knows nothing about setting up a legitimate business. He is hoping Guillermo can facilitate his firm’s articles of incorporation, and get the necessary federal and municipal licenses so he can begin advising others. Guillermo informs him that in addition to his standard hourly fee, he will require a deposit of two hundred thousand quetzales in order to smooth the progress of what he calls “the wheels of government.”

Favio knows that he isn’t being hustled. Bribery is part of the price of doing business. He has gone to Guillermo because his reputation among the Guatemalan business community is impeccable. Favio knows he is in good hands and not about to be led down a financial rabbit hole.

Thirty minutes into the meeting, Guillermo’s secretary Luisa rushes into his office and calls him into the hall. She says, “Don Guillermo, we just received a call that Ibrahim Khalil has been in a serious car accident about a kilometer from his factory near Roosevelt Hospital.”

Guillermo tenses up; his nose starts dripping. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes it; his right eye is beginning to spasm.

“Was anyone else in the car?” He is afraid to mention Maryam’s name to Luisa, though she has put calls through to her in the past.

“That’s all the man said. He sounded official. I am so sorry, Don Guillermo.”

He has no time to figure out who “the man” is. There is always a secretive “man” in Guatemala who somehow becomes the messenger of bad news.

He asks Luisa to tell Favio to leave all the documents on his desk and have him reschedule the appointment for later in the week. He walks over to the receptionist’s desk and calls Maryam from the office phone. The line rings six times before it goes to voice mail and he hears her sweet voice asking the caller to leave a name and number. “ I will return your call as soon as I can.”

He finds this strange. Maryam is never more than a few feet from her cell phone unless she is showering, which she wouldn’t be at two o’clock in the afternoon. He pulls his BlackBerry out and calls her phone again; this time it goes straight to voice mail.

This is even stranger: first six rings, then none. Why would she turn her phone off? Something is up.

He wipes his nose on his coat sleeve and calls Maryam’s apartment. Hiba says that the madam is not at home. She is gruff and uninformative, as usual.

When he persists, she says, “If you want more information, talk to her husband,” and hangs up.

Guillermo calls Ibrahim’s apartment and his maid Fernanda picks up, all in a huff. After he identifies himself, she says that it is now two o’clock, lunch is getting cold, and neither Ibrahim nor his daughter have arrived, or called to say they would be late. More matter-of-factly, she adds that she has just received a call from the police, asking for Ibrahim. She told them what she just told Guillermo.

“How do you know the call was really from the police?” he asks, agitated.

“Because the caller identified himself as Sergeant Enrique Palacios.”

“Sergeant Enrique Palacios my ass,” says Guillermo, hanging up. He is losing his cool. Rage is taking over his chest.

He leaves the office and drives his car straight to Ibrahim’s factory, weaving in and out of traffic, pushing down on his horn as he goes. He zooms around the Plaza del Obelisco and heads west. In two minutes he is passing by the huge IGGS center on the south side of Calzada Roosevelt. He passes the Trébol entrance leading to Roosevelt Hospital and goes down Ninth Avenue toward the factory on 12th Street. As he approaches the guardhouse, he sees at least five police cars parked there, with lights spinning and intermittent sirens sounding. He sees more than a dozen policemen talking, laughing, kicking at the pebbles under their feet. It all seems oddly festive, as if the president of the republic has come to pay his respects to one of Guatemala’s leading industrialists, or to bestow upon him an international business prize.

Guillermo leaves his car outside the gate and jogs up to them.

“What’s going on here?”

One of the policemen takes a few steps toward him. “And you are?”

“Guillermo Rosensweig. I am Ibrahim Khalil’s lawyer,” he says, struggling to pull out a business card from his coat pocket. He notices that his nose is still running, but now he doesn’t care what he looks like. “I received a phone call telling me that my client has been in an accident. I would like to talk to him right away.”

The policeman’s cap is too large and falls over his coppery forehead. He has to keep pushing the rim up in order to see, but since his hair is greasy it slides back down. His ears stick out like unruly cabbage leaves. He tilts his cap up again and examines the card. “I don’t think you will be able to do that, Don Guillermo. .”

“And why is that?”

“Mr. Khalil is dead.”

“What?” Guillermo screams, confused.

“And I am afraid to say that so is his daughter.”

Guillermo runs his right hand through his thinning hair. His scalp is sweating and begins to itch. He scratches his neck so hard he draws blood. He is totally lost, about to lose the capacity to breathe. The spinning lights and noise further disorient him.

“He’s dead? Ibrahim Khalil is dead?”

“So is his daughter,” the policeman answers.

“If this is your idea of a joke, I don’t find it funny.”

“It’s no joke, Don Guillermo. Samir Mounier, the husband of the deceased woman, has just confirmed that the car that blew up belonged to his wife. She and her father — apparently — were in the car and driving home together. They burned to a crisp, like a pan francés,” he adds, as if he has been waiting all his life to say something as foolish as this.

“Samir Mounier is a joke of a man. He knows nothing. And why isn’t he here now?”

“He has gone off to make arrangements for the funerals.”

It’s all happening too fast. The phone call to the office. His inability to get through to Maryam. His call to Hiba, then to Fernanda. The zigging and zagging to the office and the factory. His mind is fizzling.