David Unger - The Mastermind

Guillermo cannot believe what he’s hearing. He can’t get a word out.

“You know that the 1996 Peace Accords were a sham. This brought no peace, only opened the gate for Guatemala’s homegrown maras to prosper, and for bloodthirsty Mexican drug dealers to buy out our police department. Now the generals and the former guerrillas can congratulate themselves for having negotiated peace, when all they agreed on was to split the foreign aid that came pouring in to help us achieve democracy.”

“Miguel, I wish you would just shut up. I told you I don’t care what you believe in.”

“But you should.”

“Okay, so where did you stand during the armed conflict?”

“Where I have always stood: on the side of order.”

“And what’s your attitude toward money?”

“Well, it is a very attractive and useful commodity. I would even go so far to claim that it, more than religion, motivates human action.”

“And do you work for the president?”

“I dislike his inefficiencies. I already told you that. Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course I am.” Unprompted, Miguel’s driver delivers Guillermo another drink. He takes two huge gulps as if it was only Coca-Cola.

Miguel taps the arms of his chair. “The president and I are presently feuding, but that could change any second, depending on the decisions he makes.”

“What do you mean?”

“He presents himself as incorruptible and above temptation. He conveys a smug and superior attitude when we all know that he, his wife, and her cohorts are robbing this country blind. If he were to acknowledge his humanity, all would be forgiven.”

“Humanity? What a strange choice of words. Don’t you mean that if he were willing to share the wealth with you and your associates, you would reconsider your attacks against him?”

“As I said before, he is like the rest of us: not above temptation.”

Guillermo is shocked. He feels he is suddenly in deep water without a lifesaver. “And who else are your enemies?”

Miguel looks at him suspiciously.

“I ask you this only to understand your point of view better.”

Miguel leans back in his chair. “Well, I am not a big fan of Ignacio Balicar. Or Mayor Aroz, who is making himself a billionaire by buying up all the real estate downtown so he can convert the whole area into a commercial Disneyland — that only he will own. I believe in sharing the wealth.”

“So what do you want from me, Miguel?” Guillermo asks, exhausted.

“For the moment I only need your trust and devotion. Everything else will fall into place. In time you will see what I mean.”

This last conversation convinces Guillermo that the facilitator not only has great power but even greater fluidity. Because of his dozens, perhaps hundreds of connections, Miguel has access to information that Guillermo can only dream of. The only territory Miguel cannot penetrate is his mind. Guillermo decides to be more cautious with this man. He realizes he is likely in mortal danger and if he is to survive, he has to learn restraint. The problem is that, though he knows he can survive, he isn’t sure he wants to.

Each day that passes makes him realize more and more that Maryam is gone and not coming back, that without her he is nothing, not even a shadow. He is barely alive. He tries to keep in touch with his children, more for his sake than theirs, but it’s obvious they really don’t need him. Their great uncle has filled the vacuum of the absent father. Rosa Esther’s uncle has the wealth as well as the emotional commitment to welcome them with open arms into his family.

If Ilán and Andrea were living in Guatemala, perhaps proximity would allow him the chance to rekindle their affection for him. As it is, hundreds of miles apart, his love for them is superfluous, totally expendable. He talks to them as if insulated by glass, and they are disinterested in having normal conversations with him about swimming or dance or soccer because they recognize he is not there for them.

He is alone and lonely and staring down a deep, bottomless hole. At some point he makes an appointment with his doctor to get a prescription for antidepressants. Dr. Madrid does a full examination and tells him he is in good physical shape for a man nearing fifty years of age, despite having high blood pressure. Guillermo confesses that he is drinking a lot and sleeping very little. He has panic attacks that increase his level of anxiety — that’s what he wants the doctor to address.

Dr. Madrid prescribes a thirty-pill bottle of Ambien to help him sleep. He also prescribes Cymbalta, a new-generation drug similar to Prozac that will prevent suicidal impulses. He warns Guillermo not to mix these drugs with alcohol because he could provoke a stroke that could lead to temporary or permanent paralysis, or worse.

Guillermo nods, though he is not sure he can stop drinking. He is sliding down a greased hill without brakes. The jury is still out regarding his desire to live.

* * *

Nonetheless, Guillermo Rosensweig is not as simple-minded as Miguel Paredes might think. He has lied to the great facilitator: he does have a folder with copies of the documents that Ibrahim had shown him — they are locked in his apartment desk. One night, with all the lights off, he opens the drawer, takes out the folder, and places it at the bottom of his gym bag, which he covers with dirty socks. He is afraid to look at the documents either in his office or in his own apartment because he suspects that Miguel has both under surveillance. Microscopic cameras, sensors, and microphones have been planted everywhere, on the corners of walls, in the crevices, in keyholes. He is sure of it. His degree of mistrust grows when he receives phone calls in which he can’t hear the caller, or the caller hangs up — he is sure that Miguel’s henchmen are monitoring his whereabouts, trying to unnerve or panic him so he will do something desperate.

When he drives to his law office or visits Miguel at the Sophos Bookstore or Café Europa, he is sure he is being tailed by Korean cars of varying colors. And he imagines that complete strangers with whom he makes random eye contact are following his every move. He sees suspicious faces popping up everywhere, like bats hovering at the entrance of caves. He imagines eyes scrutinizing him at coffee shops and grocery stores. He is under surveillance even when he picks his nose.

Guillermo changes his cell phone number and for two days he does not receive any mystery calls. But then suddenly the hang-ups return.

He takes an Ambien to sleep every night and thirty milligrams of Cymbalta each morning when he wakes up. Sometimes he takes two of the latter, with a shot of rum, even though it makes him groggy and a bit nauseous in the morning. When the medicine is working he feels invincible: he wants to live and bring the guilty to justice. But it is a momentary high. He is unable to conquer the inertia that keeps him from shaking off Maryam’s death and remaking his life. He is stunned by this, never having depended upon anyone to survive, not even when he was aimlessly walking the streets of Europe. Certainly he never had to rely on tiny colored pills.

And he has lost all sexual desire. He hasn’t had an erection in weeks.

The medicine makes him less anxious, even jacks up his mind so that he sometimes has a clear will to live, but his heart is like a mechanical toy from which all the coils and gears have fallen.

One night he almost calls Rosa Esther to ask her if she will take him back. He is ready to move to Mexico. He is willing to chuck his lucrative law practice, all his clients and connections, to go back to his wife and children and get a decent night’s sleep.