The Mastermind

by David Unger

  “Make sure my death . . .” he says absentmindedly. He takes his glass, swirls the golden liquid, and drinks it down. The rawness makes him wince, as if he were drinking grain alcohol. He can’t stop thinking about himself with a morose self-pity. This is the source of his inertia: his inability to rouse his soul.

  Through the fog, he hears Miguel declare: “Well, if you want to kill yourself, then at least make it worthwhile. Meaningful. You can help bring the government down like a house of cards, for example.”

  “Say what?”

  “Let your death count for something. Make it meaningful. To your family, to the country you love so much. Look,” Miguel says, grabbing Guillermo’s hand and moving it away from the rum, “I am very fond of you. The last thing I would want is for you to kill yourself. At the same time, I cannot judge the depth of your depression. Your wife has abandoned you, your kids are living in another country. Your law practice is in disarray. A friend and client has been killed and so has the love of your life. If I had suffered all those blows, perhaps I too would be as lost as you are. But you can’t continue to indulge yourself like this. What I do know is that no matter what you decide to do, it should have some sort of meaning beyond yourself. And that meaning can create a positive outcome that will be useful to others, maybe even to society. You should consider that.”

  Guillermo picks up a new glass. He has no idea where Miguel is going, but the train of thought has sobered him up: he wants to hear more. He sounds like a priest with a direct line to God, and the message he is delivering is not garbled, though it is in a code Guillermo has not yet deciphered. “All this sounds like some kind of variation of your theory of actionable information,” he finally slurs.

  “Not at all,” says Miguel. He is clearly bothered by how Guillermo is muddling things up. “My actionable information theory is related to producing something tangible: making money based on truths that you and no one else has, or creating a positive situation based on the destruction of something rotten. Right now I am talking about something incredibly powerful: sacrificing your own personal desire for the greater good. True love of country.”

  “You sound like a Marxist.”

  Miguel shakes his head. “It is quite the opposite. I’m not arguing for you to usher in the dictatorship of the proletariat, but for you to execute a patriotic act,” he says triumphantly. “Guillermo, I know that you love Guatemala.”

  “I do. The quaint Indians, the majestic volcanoes, Lake Atitlán,” Guillermo responds, citing some banal tourist-brochure claptrap. What he wants to say is that he has dedicated his whole life to making Guatemala a better place to live for his children and grandchildren—who will now spend the rest of their days in Mexico.

  “Did you ever read Camus’s The Stranger?”

  “I read it in French in high school. L’étranger—in Madame Raccah’s class. She was our French teacher from Tunisia. She later tutored Rosa Esther. All my classmates thought the novel was a superb piece of fiction.”

  “Well, I think it is totally stupid.”

  “I only remember that it takes place in Algeria or somewhere in Northern Africa. And that it is terribly hot.”

  “Exactly,” Miguel says. “The protagonist is a guy who kills an Arab simply because the sun is driving him crazy and he discovers that someone has placed a gun in his hands. I personally can’t imagine a motivation so stupid. The French protagonist kills an Arab—a bad Arab for sure, a troublemaker—but for no real reason. It’s a murder that has no effect on anything other than his own death by hanging. Can you imagine anything so foolish? To kill someone because you can’t stand the heat? His death has no repercussions in society beyond the act itself! How insipid is that?”

  “Well, if I could kill Samir I would be extremely happy.”

  “But what would killing him actually accomplish? It would be an act of malice with no benefit to the greater society. Maybe if things were switched: if killing him would bring Maryam back to life: that would make you happy, and therefore return you to a position to benefit society. But to kill that old man—what would be gained? You would be arrested for murder and eventually sentenced to death. Even if Maryam were alive, the two of you would never be together. It would be something else if you killed Samir and you and Maryam were able to escape to live together somewhere, happily ever after—”

  “In Paris! In Paris! That’s where we would go. But Maryam is dead.”

  Miguel pauses to wet his lips on his drink. “Do you really want to die?”

  “As things now stand, I do. My life tastes like shit. I wish I could find someone to kill me because I am too much of a coward to kill myself. I would pay him to do it.”

  The bar is quiet; there are only a few clerk types drinking beer at the bar and watching the TV screen—Comunicaciones is playing soccer against its crosstown rival Municipal. Guillermo had no idea that local soccer games were now being transmitted on cable.

  Miguel inches closer toward him. “I can help you kill yourself painlessly—but only if you take someone else down with you.”

  Guillermo’s head is spinning. “I have a dear friend who read a shitty French novel and wants to help me commit suicide,” he says softly to himself. “What a wonderful friend.”

  “Only if you want to.”

  Guillermo doesn’t know what to say. His own departure from this planet has already become a given—according to Miguel Paredes. “Who do you want me to take down? Samir wouldn’t be enough. He may have wanted Ibrahim and Maryam dead, but I don’t believe he would actually have done it. I doubt that a suicide letter accusing him would change anything. It would be seen as the rantings of a madman consumed by grief.”

  “You’re right. Accusing someone as unimportant as Samir wouldn’t make a difference. But there are others who make living a decent life in this country impossible. And both you and I have the evidence to prove it.”

  Guillermo is confused. “Oh yes, I know who you mean. Mayor Aroz, for example. He is buying up this whole neighborhood so he can turn it into Disneyland.”

  “I was thinking of someone higher up.”

  “Óscar Berger? Who gives a shit about that useless ex-president? You are simply wasting my death.”

  “What about going after the president himself? You yourself have said that Khalil had documents proving his financial shenanigans. I think we could create a scenario where we might force him to resign—in shame!”

  Guillermo stares into his now-empty glass. “You’re crazy! No one would take my word over the president’s. Ibrahim Khalil believed he could bring him down—see where that got him? Killed, and he and his wife are still roaming around free. No thank you. I’d be dying in vain.”

  “If we plan this thing correctly, we could bring down the government—the whole house of cards.”

  “You’re dreaming, Miguel.”

  There is a pause. For some weird reason Guillermo thinks of Carlos, who worked with his father at La Candelaria. He hasn’t thought of him in twenty years. But at this very moment Guillermo wonders if he is still alive. He was such a loyal employee—maybe he thought that one day he would inherit the lamp store and that’s why he was so devoted. Guillermo should try and contact him. When he awakes from his reverie, he sees Miguel looking dead at him.

  “What?”

  “What what?”

  “Why are you staring at me in that way?”

  “I want you to know something: what I am thinking is not a dream.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “I’ll explain, but it requires bravery.”

  Guillermo peers at Miguel through glassy eyes.

  chapter twenty-five

  lights, camera, action!

  “I think we should make a video.”

  Guillermo picks up his nearly empty glass and runs his tongue along the rim, fishing for the remaining drops of rum. Suddenly he feels Miguel’s hand on his wrist.

  “Listen to me!”

  Guillermo ignores his spi
nning head and puts his hands down on the table, fingers entwined, as he did in grade school when his teacher demanded attention.

  “We set a camera on you and have you tell the audience, the good citizens of Guatemala, your story. You say that if they are listening to this particular recording, it’s because the president of the republic has had you killed. You will have died to make your country better—”

  “Our country,” Guillermo corrects, snickering.

  “Yes, our country.”

  “I don’t like pain. An overdose of pills is not painless.”

  Miguel looks at him impassively through his sharp, hooded crow eyes. “I could guarantee that your death will be painless—”

  “I can’t imagine a painless death.”

  “Imagine if you were playing tennis and had a heart attack that killed you instantly. One minute you are running across the court with your racket, smashing backhands, the next minute you are down on the asphalt, dreaming of making love to 70,000 virgins.”

  As Miguel explains the scheme, Guillermo realizes that he has given the matter much thought. He is to look straight into a camera and say, “If you are watching this recording, it is because I am dead.” He’d then go on to accuse the president, his wife, and their inner circle of plotting to not only kill Ibrahim Khalil, but him as well, as the only other person who knew about the secret transfers and loans at Banurbano.

  Miguel insists that to make the video convincing, Guillermo has to sober up. There can be no hint that his accusations are being made because he is a mourning alcoholic or that depression got the best of him. For this plot to work, the video needs to show that Guillermo is alert, very much alive, and with much to live for, even though he is grieving the loss of his lover. A bungling drunk would not be able to convince anyone. On camera he would have to be passionate, courageous, and clear as a glass bell—an individual who has become so fed up with corruption and money laundering that he is willing to sacrifice his own life to get the truth out.

  “I don’t think I can do it.”

  “Yes you can. You are a strong man.”

  “Look at me. I’m a shadow of who I was, if I ever was a strong man.”

  “We can do this together, Guillermo. We need to get you into shape.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Braulio Perdomo can help you get off the bottle.”

  “Your spy?”

  “Come on. He’s not spying on you. Think of him as an ally: he can bring you to the gym, oversee your training. Of course you can do it. With his help, you can get into shape within a week.”

  Guillermo nods. He understands how far-reaching Miguel’s web is. He sits back in his chair and sighs, realizing that his death could indeed have its benefits. He can imagine that Ilán and Andrea, even Rosa Esther, would see him as a hero, willing to give up his life to once and for all rid their birth country of the plague and stench of corruption. His death could begin the healing, the process of clearing out all the filthy leeches that are sucking Guatemala dry. His sacrifice could be the first act initiating a movement of national cleansing.

  “What’s your favorite form of exercise?”

  “Cycling.”

  “Let me buy you an Italian aluminum alloy bike tomorrow.”

  “That’s not necessary. I can repair my old Pinnarello.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Miguel says.

  “Two weeks is all I need to get into shape and sober up.”

  “I think you can do it in one.”

  Miguel is clearly calling the shots, but Guillermo truly no longer cares. He is sure that nothing he does will redeem his pointless life, though his death might help.

  * * *

  The suicide has to be perfectly planned and executed. Miguel will help make the arrangements. The first step is to hire people to begin calling Guillermo’s phone number with all sorts of threats. Guillermo needs to react appropriately to these calls, with the right degree of anger and fear in his texts and call-backs. The incoming and outgoing calls will be registered on his phone’s SIM card as proof of the threats. Guillermo neglects to mention the hang-ups and other strange calls he’s been receiving.

  Then both he and Guillermo need to buy another set of disposable mobile devices so they can communicate privately and discuss the details of the filming and Guillermo’s death—an assassination. Miguel will provide him with the contacts. He knows hit men who would kill their own mothers for five thousand quetzales. But he insists that Guillermo make the arrangements. Miguel doesn’t want to be directly involved should something go wrong. The strategy is to keep as many layers between Guillermo, Miguel, and the hired killers as possible, so that nothing can be traced back to them. The whole scheme would collapse if Miguel’s name were to be implicated in the preparations.

  The single assassin will think his orders came from the president.

  Carried out in secret, with great finesse, Guillermo’s video and apparent murder will be seen by his countrymen as the final, desperate act of a courageous patriot obliged to hold the president and his band of thieves accountable for destroying the country.

  * * *

  The first day—a Monday—that Guillermo is on the wagon his body rebels, giving him stomach cramps and wreaking havoc on his bowel movements. He drinks gallons of Gatorade to build up his electrolytes, and eats spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar to increase his iron. He stops consuming all kinds of junk food—no more chips or pitchers of coffee—and feasts on plates of papaya and scrambled eggs in the morning, a can of tuna fish for lunch, and, continuing his high-protein diet, a steak every night, with boiled potatoes and broccoli.

  He slowly finds himself climbing out of his dark hole; his thoughts, too, are beginning to develop some level of coherency.

  He has Braulio bring him to the gym, where he jogs, swims, and lifts weights to get his head clear enough to make the recording. He also has the chauffeur bring his bike to the Raleigh repair shop near the Oakland Mall. It is fixed immediately and on the first afternoon of his rehab he begins to ride it again on the roads near his condominium. At first his legs are stiff and cramp up often, but little by little they start to hurt less and achieve a bit of fluidity.

  He stays on the Cymbalta but starts weaning himself off the other medications, reducing the dosage a little each day. For the first two nights, Guillermo’s sleep is interrupted—he has horrible, violent nightmares—but then he sees an improvement. He is beginning to heal.

  Despite the physical recovery, Guillermo’s desire to live does not return. He wishes he were dead, though the thought of actually going through with the planned suicide still gives him the chills.

  Meanwhile, Miguel works full throttle to arrange the filming for Friday night. No one will ever suspect his apparent murder was a suicide. It will be another sleight-of-hand trick, something common in Guatemala, where the audience, fed up with violence, becomes a willing and necessary participant in the success of a totally fabricated production.

  Throughout all the planning, Guillermo realizes that for the first time in his life he has given up total control. He has always seen himself as the driver of his own destiny, a mastermind who controls all the buttons and levers. Now he has ceded control to Miguel Paredes, and this makes him nervous. Since their last meeting at Café Europa, Guillermo feels like a machine programmed to respond to the other man’s slightest provocation.

  What troubles Guillermo most is that Miguel is not as transparent as he acts—there’s something of the manipulator about him. But Guillermo is so alone now, he is grateful that someone has taken any interest in his life, his ideas, and what he has lost. He could not plan this act alone, and has come to need Miguel.

  Guillermo also doesn’t like that he has to involve others in the arrangement of his own death. He fears it will not be executed exactly as planned. He wonders why he can’t just put a bullet in his brain or overdose—he has the pills—and leave a suicide note. Why bother to engage others? What will that do?
According to Miguel it will transform his death into a salutary movement, ridding Guatemala of disease.

  And by dying he will also refocus scrutiny on the circumstances surrounding Ibrahim and Maryam Khalil’s deaths, and perhaps flush out the real killer. Though he still wonders if Samir was somehow behind it all, Miguel has all but convinced him the president was involved. He welcomes the idea of surprising and exposing him.

  He is not afraid of dying. In truth, he is afraid of living, of continuing to live a life that holds no meaning. A life without Maryam.

  * * *

  Guillermo continues to have disjointed dreams of her, especially as his body works to eliminate the alcohol from his system. He breaks into night sweats, and his breathing is hard and sporadic.

  Once he finds himself standing in the middle of his living room, sleepwalking. In a deep sweat. With a fork in his hand.

  He has a recurring dream in which he sees Maryam walking across a foggy landscape. He tries to grab hold of her arm, but she slips away—she always manages to escape his grasp. He sees her walking to a cliff, seconds away from jumping over the edge, or he sees her ejected without a parachute from a small plane.

  He is troubled by her lack of corporeality. And the fact that she is always beyond his reach.

  * * *

  The filming of the video is planned and will be carried out downtown. Miguel has decided it is best done in a two-room storage facility above a barbershop in Zone 1, on 9th Street, between Sixth and Seventh avenues, very close to Café Europa and Guillermo’s father’s old lamp store.

  At first, the idea is to film Guillermo sitting on one of the barber chairs in storage, but Miguel worries that the comical staging will undermine the seriousness of the video. He wants to set up the filming as innocuously as possible, without too many details, so that the recording has a sense of authenticity, and so that no one can locate the actual filming site.

  Only three people will be at the filming: the cameraman, Guillermo, and Miguel.

  * * *

  The cameraman constructs the set in one room: camera on a tripod, spotlights pointing to an empty black folding chair before a card table, and a dark blue sheet in the background. The only contrasting color is the red microphone on the table.