by David Unger
He wants nothing more than for his children to tell him about their lives, to feel close to him, to offer hugs and kisses. When he takes them for a Sunday lunch at the San Ángel Inn, he realizes that his children care more for the macaw repeating words and phrases in the main dining area than about his grief. Truth be told, they find his mourning, his propensity for tears, embarrassing if not morbid.
Guillermo takes the TACA flight back to Guatemala City in a state of utter resignation: he finally understands he is all alone now.
His only recompense is to drink himself to sleep every night. Every single night.
chapter twenty-one
the vaporizing folder
After two weeks, the special prosecutor appointed by the president delivers a report claiming that Ibrahim was either killed by an ex-employee for having been fired or by a contrabandist he had double-crossed in a sketchy textile purchase. Maryam’s death, in either case, is ruled accidental, collateral damage, the result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“That’s what the government claims,” says Miguel. “It’s always easier to blame the victims, who are unable to defend themselves. Don’t you think?” He and Guillermo are talking in his office, where the privacy is greatest and the liquor most abundant.
“This is a major cover-up,” Guillermo agrees. “The regime fed the prosecutor these findings so he wouldn’t discover the documents Ibrahim and I were prepared to release. Banurbano was making illegal loans to the friends of the president and his wife. It’s a cover-up, a cover-up, a cover-up.”
“Maybe you can share some of that information with the press, Guillermo. You know I have friends at Prensa Libre and El Periódico who would be more than happy to publish any information you have to discredit the president.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone. Tell them yourself and say I’m a reliable source.”
Miguel shakes his head. “Everyone knows I’ve opposed the president since before his election. For years I have been considered either a malcontent or an unreliable source of information. You, on the other hand, are completely credible and trustworthy. You are a forthright citizen. You might just give them copies of some of the documents . . .”
Though Guillermo and Ibrahim had sworn to one another not to discuss their findings with anyone until they were certain their accusations could be corroborated, the older man’s death changes the equation. Guillermo can use Miguel’s connections to reveal what they had uncovered; there’s no point in keeping it hidden. He needs help, lots of it, and Miguel’s press contacts could supply it.
“Well, I know for a fact that Ibrahim warned certain Cobán coffee barons that they needed to return the interest-free loans Banurbano had given them or he would report them to the newspapers. Remember, these funds are supposed to help thousands of entrepeneurs, not a handful of moguls. Ibrahim was enraged. And it didn’t stop there. He discovered some unusual bank transfers to a Canadian nickel-mining company operating out of Alta Verapaz.”
“Where’s the proof?”
Guillermo squirms in his seat. “I don’t have any. Ibrahim would never let me make copies. The documents exist, but they are probably locked in his private office.”
“You mean that even though you were working together and you were his personal lawyer, the old buzzard didn’t trust you enough to give you duplicates?”
“I wouldn’t characterize it as mistrust. Ibrahim was paranoid. He didn’t fully trust anyone, not even Maryam. Let me backtrack—he trusted Maryam with his life, but he did not want to share any information with her. I imagine it was to protect her, in case he revealed things that put his life, and therefore hers, in jeopardy.”
“That’s too bad—I mean the part about not giving you copies.”
“Had he told her, she never would have said a peep, not even to Samir. That much I know!”
“Well, he loved his daughter and despised his son-in-law. Who wouldn’t? He’s a freeloader.”
Guillermo is surprised once again that Miguel knows so many personal details about Ibrahim, Maryam, and Samir, though he has said many times that his work as a facilitator gives him access to information. Guillermo Googled Miguel once but found no useful information about him, as though he never existed. All this makes him feel more lonely and despondent. He needs someone trustworthy in his life to help alleviate his depression. He can’t turn to Araceli or Isabel, both of whom he cut off rather abruptly. This leaves Miguel.
“I’m sure Maryam would never have betrayed Ibrahim to Samir, whom she had begun to detest. But you know all this! Samir was twenty-five years older than Maryam. She married him when she was twenty-four because she was desperate; he claimed to be rich. Besides, the Khalils and the Mouniers were both from the same clan in Sidon, Lebanon. But her allegiance was always to her father, not her husband. Ibrahim didn’t fully trust me and I was his fucking lawyer!”
Guillermo isn’t making much sense and Miguel wants to stay on point. “So you don’t have any of these documents?”
“No, none. None at all.”
“And do you think he would have brought any home?”
“I don’t think so. He lived alone with a maid who came in at nine and left at six. I think he kept everything important in a locked file in his office.”
“Do you know where?” Miguel asks offhandedly.
“In a drawer on the right-hand side of his desk.”
“Not in a safe? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. As soon as I’d come into his office, he would unlock the drawer and bring out two bulging manila folders. And before we would leave, he would place these same folders in that same drawer and lock it.”
“Well, those folders have vaporized.”
“How do you know?” Guillermo may be despondent and alcoholic, but not asleep.
“You won’t be upset with me?”
He stares at Miguel. When Guillermo reaches this man’s age, he wants to be retired, playing tennis or golf every day, not operating a men’s clothing store as a front for clandestine activities. The facilitator wants to come across as sheepishly innocent. Still, there’s something about him that makes Guillermo suspect he might be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. In Guatemala so many people fit this bill that you simply have to navigate through the layers of deception and trust somebody, even if that somebody might one day betray you.
“Of course not,” says Guillermo, realizing he and Miguel are becoming increasingly frank, almost wedded to one another.
“The night after Ibrahim and Maryam were killed, I sent some men to break into his office to see if we could find the folders. We searched everywhere—in his desk, the closets, behind paintings, even under the rugs—but found nothing.”
Guillermo is full of questions. “But how did you even know those folders existed? Supposedly, we were the only two who had perused them. Did you know each other?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I can’t believe this! I thought I was the only one who knew.”
Miguel backs off. “We crossed paths a few times at various meetings, but we were not intimate. Let me put it this way: we were professional colleagues. I was given the information that someone had copied some of the Banurbano files. I suspected it was Ibrahim, but honestly, this was pure intuition on my part.”
“So you had to break into his office to see if he was the one duplicating files?” Guillermo is alternately startled and furious at this revelation. He is slowly realizing that Ibrahim had duped him as well, claiming he had no other dancing partner.
“Oh, my dear Guillermo, I’ve built up my network over the last twenty-five years precisely not to be surprised—like you were by the existence of the video. I don’t like surprises. I have planted dozens of sources in Guatemala to keep me informed of things: they are cheap to hire, and when I need information, I get it. As you know, Ibrahim’s factory has continued operating since his death under the supervision of a court-appointed manager. But did you know Samir is already movin
g ahead to take over ownership of it? You know very little about me. In time you will know more. Suffice it to say that I have been gathering and supplying information to generals and presidents going back twenty-three years—even to Vinicio Cerezo’s administration. You could say that in my role as facilitator I double as a kind of senior ambassador without an office.”
Guillermo is beginning to understand. “So you were a colleague of Ibrahim’s. This is why you were at the memorial service at the San Francisco Church.”
“Anyone can walk into a church. I wanted to pay my respects. But then you gave your speech: I loved it! I knew I had to meet you. Your eulogy revealed to me not only your passion, but your loyalty. Yes, I have known about you for many years, long before you began working with Ibrahim. I have approximately ten thousand dossiers on the most important people in Guatemala. You might say I have admired you from afar, from a distance that has varied with the passing of time.”
“And what about my personal life?”
“My dear Guillermo, you’re forgetting what I told you. In my line of work, nothing is strictly personal. Can I get you another rum and Coke?” He signals to his chauffeur who is monitoring screens from across the room. He looks vaguely familiar. Was he the man who was sitting in the Hyundai at the Centro Vasco that rainy afternoon?
“So you must have known that Maryam and I were having an affair.”
Miguel grows silent. He adjusts his blue silk tie that has swordfish knitted into it. “I don’t know the particulars about your romance, but I do know the exact date when your affair began—”
“Your driver was tailing me.” Guillermo is embarrassed.
Miguel puts his hand on Guillermo’s. He has beautiful hands: long fingers, scant black hair on his knuckles. They are the facilitator’s loveliest features.
“How much do you know about me?”
Miguel keeps his hand still. “I know that many men would admire you for your dalliances. I know when, with whom, in which room, and exactly how many times you had sex with your different lovers at the Best Western Stofella. And I know about the apartment you rented in the Plazuela España.”
Guillermo pulls his hand away, as if he has been burned by hot metal. He feels crushed, discovered, found out, revealed, standing naked with his pants down at his feet. To think that someone knew about the Stofella, the apartment in the Plazuela España.
“What about my texts?”
“We intercepted some.”
“Some? Just some? And were there hidden cameras and microphones when Maryam and I made love?”
“Guillermo, you were the one who insisted on having the same room at the Stofella.”
“Oh my God! I could kill you.”
“Instead of looking so upset, Guillermo, you should be pleased that I respected you enough all these years to consider you both worthy of my pursuit and deserving of my silence.”
“Araceli?”
“Araceli, Sofia, Isabel, and even Micaela, though you only slept with her twice.” Miguel says this matter-of-factly.
Guillermo doesn’t know how to respond. “Why were you investigating me?”
“I already told you: you were a person of interest. I have thousands of dossiers.”
“Do my political views matter to you?”
“Not at all. I don’t believe in politics. I dislike the president, not necessarily because of his policies, but because of his inefficiencies. He contaminates the air we breathe with his coal plant while I prefer nuclear energy. I believe we have an obligation to release less waste into the atmosphere.”
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.”
chapter twenty-two
the mastermind, maybe
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.
