David Unger - The Mastermind

Guillermo glances down at the mourners who are staring blankly back at him, almost as if he were lecturing to them in Chinese. At the same time, he realizes he is saying too much. There are individuals in attendance who may have vested interest in his accusations, like the four men sitting in the back.

“But this is not what I meant to say at this memorial service. Some of you may know that through my friendship with Ibrahim, I had the privilege of meeting his daughter Maryam.” Guillermo nods his head to Samir, who now sits straight up in the first row of the pews, immutable as a Mayan stela, without an expression on his face.

“Because of the legal advice I provided Ibrahim, I was able to lunch with him and Maryam many times. She was a beautiful woman, gracious and intelligent, with a fierce commitment to the care of her father and, if I may add, her husband. As Samir Mounier has stated, she was Ibrahim’s sole support after his own wife died from cancer. She was selflessly dedicated to ensuring both his health and his happiness. She was a lovely human being with a heart of gold.”

Guillermo begins wiping away tears. His heart aches so much that he is afraid he will actually confess his love for Maryam to the mourners. He has to find a way to finish.

“In closing, I only want to ask all of you to remember the goodness of Ibrahim’s and Maryam’s souls. Let’s not forget their dedication, not only to one another, but to all the friends and acquaintances gathered here today. It was our privilege to know them. They were among those few Guatemalans dedicated to justice, law, and truthfulness. In contrast, our leaders are dedicated to amassing personal wealth at the expense of people like Ibrahim who would dare to clean up the filth of their government.”

Guillermo knows he should stop now, but he can’t — rage has gotten control of him. “To honor Maryam and Ibrahim, I want to ask each and every one of you to combat the lethargy that has delivered our once wonderful country into the hands of drug dealers, thieves, and murderers. I know I am risking my life by saying this, but my friends were killed like dogs because they were standing in the way of those who want to continue laundering ill-gotten money—”

With tears blinding his eyes, Guillermo cannot speak anymore — and he shouldn’t. He makes his way back down the steps of the altar. Hands are clapping loudly, and there’s a palpable stirring of emotion in the church for the first time. Guillermo has struck a nerve and everyone is feeling it.

The priest returns to the lectern and delivers a few closing comments about devoting one’s life to Jesus Christ. Religion has never seemed so hollow to Guillermo as now. As if useless prayers can erase the loss that he and many in the audience feel.

The service has come to an end, and the public mourning of Ibrahim and Maryam is about to expire.

* * *

Guillermo sits alone in the last pew as people file out of the church. He hadn’t seen her in attendance, but Hiba comes over and hugs him with real feeling.

“You were her guiding star,” she whispers before hurrying out.

All this time he was sure she hated him. He wants to run after her but realizes how absurd it would look. He stays seated, with the odd dignity reserved for honest people who speak their minds despite the consequences.

He can’t imagine her sticking with Samir, now that Maryam is gone. Guillermo feels a bit vindicated, though he is suddenly seized by the desperate finality of it all. He walks down the nave toward Samir, who has gotten up from his seat and is talking with the priest. There is an unidentifiable smirk on his face — could he actually be happy? Guillermo wants to grab him by the shoulders and punch him in the face. Repeatedly.

A well-dressed man steps out of the third row of pews and offers his hand. “I was impressed by what you had to say.” He is a balding man in his early sixties, but in excellent shape, judging by the way he fills out the jacket of his dark blue suit. Guillermo is certain they have never met, but he looks familiar, as though he has seen his face in one of the newspapers, or on television.

“Miguel Paredes, at your service.”

“Guillermo Rosensweig.”

Miguel smiles. “Of course, I know exactly who you are.”

Guillermo feels embarrassed. “Yes, of course.”

“You know, you only hinted at it, but I agree there’s something here that makes no sense. You almost get the feeling that Ibrahim and Maryam’s deaths are part of a larger plot. And it’s certainly discouraging that both the husband and the government representatives are more than willing to sweep the Khalils’ remains under the rug, as if they were dust.” Paredes is not a particularly handsome man, but his gift of gab gives him charisma.

“I only said what my heart and mind told me to say,” Guillermo replies by way of explanation.

“May I be blunt with you, Mr. Rosensweig?”

“Of course. And call me Guillermo.”

“Well, Guillermo, some of us believe that your client and his daughter were definitely assassinated and that the murderers are being protected by the government and the Banurbano board of directors — just as you implied.”

Guillermo stares at Miguel. He wears turtle-shell glasses and has a large nose that twists to the side. He has sharp, hooded crow eyes, unsentimental and prone to blinking in a kind of nervous twitch, black and hard as obsidian, and unusually mesmerizing. His long arms hang to his sides as he speaks. He is grandfatherly, but his bulk suggests that he boxed or lifted weights when he was younger. Guillermo is immediately taken in by him, even seduced. Miguel reminds him of his old friend Juancho — or what he might have looked like had he taken up weights and lived into his sixties. He wants to trust this man.

“And you base your accusations on?”

“Some of the same information you have just alluded to. But you know, we should find another place to discuss this,” Miguel says, glancing around the church. “Are you in a rush?”

“A rush to do what? Clean my apartment?”

“Why don’t we go over to Café Europa on 11th Street where we can talk a bit more openly. It’s my treat.”

Guillermo nods. The two urns, weighing approximately two kilos each, will be placed in the wall of the church crypt at the Verbena Cemetery. He doesn’t want to stay to see this, and he can’t imagine going back to his office or apartment. He could call his children but he doubts they would neutralize his gloom. In reality, if it weren’t for this man’s invitation, he would go to some random bar, get stinking drunk, and weep.

Guillermo imagines that drinks with Miguel Paredes might produce some very interesting information as they walk single file down Sixth Avenue to Café Europa. It’s a short walk, but there are dozens of street vendors blocking both the sidewalks and access into the stores selling the cheapest conceivable merchandise: plastic dishes, generic electronics, shoes made of synthetic materials. Guillermo remembers when Sixth Avenue was the epitome of elegance, when he used to “sextear” with his friends: ogle the legs of the young secretaries as they walked to work in the adjoining buildings. But not anymore. There is talk that Mayor Aroz is considering turning Sixth Avenue into a pedestrian mall, but that may be years away.

They take a corner table on the second floor of Café Europa overlooking the Rey Sol Restaurant. It is the kind of bar that is perfect for discreet conversation: few customers, tables set apart; the ideal atmosphere for loners who want to drown their sorrows or talk without fear of being overheard. It has no charm: it simply is.