by David Unger
Once the room is set up, the cameraman calls Miguel, parked on 9th Street, and tells him it is safe to bring Guillermo upstairs. Both of them wear wolf masks over their heads so the cameraman won’t recognize or remember them. He sits Guillermo behind a six-foot table, and does a test run while Guillermo still wears his mask. The sound and light are tested; there’s no problem. The cameraman suggests that Guillermo relax, which he does by trying to sit as comfortably as he can on the folding chair.
The test run complete, the cameraman resets the video recorder and goes to sit in the anteroom so that he cannot hear or see what is going on. He is sworn to secrecy, and amply paid for it, but Miguel doesn’t want any mistakes. Once the recording is completed, Miguel and Guillermo will replace their masks before the cameraman comes back in to shut off the camera. They will make multiple recordings until they get it right.
With the video running, Miguel sits on a chair by the door and signals for Guillermo to start. Guillermo hesitates for a second. He has spent many waking hours thinking about what he wants to say on the tape, since it will be his final will and testament. Not only will it be his opportunity to set the record straight, but he will be able to tell his countrymen what he believes is ailing Guatemala. With any luck at all, he might actually be the spark for real institutional change.
Guillermo takes off his mask. He is dressed in a natty dark blue suit and a light blue silk tie; he is very nervous at first. He feels awkward looking straight ahead into a video camera, with the lights on and only Miguel present. He is sweating in the windowless room and aware of moisture dripping from his armpits into his shirt.
He begins by identifying himself and saying that if the public were unfortunately watching this tape it is because he has been killed by the president. His opening statement is delivered in a stiff monotone, as if he is reading from a poorly edited transcript. His eyes seem unfocused, his tongue tied. Sweat patches form on his temples. After about a minute, he slows down and his comments become deliberate and clear.
He reveals that the only reason he’s dead is because he was the personal lawyer of Ibrahim Khalil, who was cowardly killed along with his lovely daughter Maryam in a hideous drive-by shooting and that their murder was planned by the president and his wife.
Deaths like theirs have been occurring in Guatemala for decades, year after year. It’s the same old story. Guatemalans do nothing because there’s nothing to be done. Whoever kills does so with impunity and with the protection of gangs that control the government, or military cells intent on camouflaging their true identities. Guatemala no longer belongs to the people, but to corrupt government officials, narco gangs, and the individual murderers and thieves who have jointly conspired to destroy the country. He contrasts the intentions of these malevolent forces with the goodness of individuals like Ibrahim Khalil, a man who showed up to work at six forty-five a.m. every day because he felt a personal responsibility to all his employees. Industrialists and factory owners were defying the endemic corruption in Guatemala by showing they could be transparent and honest, work for the betterment of society, and still turn a healthy profit—something they were entitled to.
He eulogizes Maryam Khalil as an obedient daughter and a beacon of goodness in an increasingly corrupt country. Once a week she would come pick up her father at twelve thirty and bring him home for lunch. She doted on her father and served her husband in the same proper way.
Ibrahim Khalil did nothing to deserve to die like a dog, but even worse was for the assassins to have taken Maryam along with him. The special prosecution concluded that their deaths were either gang related or had something to do with a factory-based vendetta. As Khalil’s lawyer, Guillermo knew much more. For two months they had been meeting twice weekly to determine if there were any illegal shenanigans going on at Banurbano, where Khalil served on the board as the president’s appointed representative. Khalil was tolerated until he began focusing on certain inconsistencies and discrepancies which indicated illegal loans to vested parties.
Guillermo goes on to stress that he has direct knowledge of why Ibrahim and Maryam were killed. As an advisory board member of Banurbano, Ibrahim had discovered fraud and had physical proof to present to the press. But before he could do this—and disrupt the theft of hundreds of millions more quetzales—the puppet president and his henchmen liquidated him.
After saying this, Guillermo pauses. He is suddenly aware that when this tape is viewed he will be addressing millions of Guatemalans. He feels the full thrust of his power and relaxes: his shoulders drop, his voice assumes a more natural tone, and he is able to spin the narrative in a more cogent form. He remains focused, though there’s loud music coming up from the floor—a strange medley of rancheras. The more he talks, the greater his animation and the more distorted his face becomes. His anger is rising and it is important that the audience see this, as if they are reliving with him the cruel events of the last months. He wants them to know that merely stating these facts is making his blood boil. He feels his heart is being compressed, but this they cannot see. Two or three times Guillermo brings a hand from under the table and places it inside his shirt, as if trying to touch a cross or massage his heart. He tries to control his facial gestures now, but every ten or fifteen seconds his mouth tightens, on the verge of spitting out words from his polished teeth.
Soon the music dies down, and Guillermo starts flashing his hands left and right as he refers to the Banurbano managers as ruling over a den of thieves. The bank is where money is laundered, elite businessmen are “loaned” government money for personal use: in sum, it is a wholly corrupt institution. Every single honest banker in the country knows that this bank, set up to serve the poor, is a sham.
Guillermo, pausing in his speech, begins to think of himself as Robin Hood.
The camera runs on. He is speaking again, but has lost his rhythm. He restates the same accusations, confusing things, saucing up his language like an actor improvising on the stage.
He wonders aloud if some viewers might think this is all a plot to besmirch or overthrow the government by a cabal of malcontents, but he has the proof, pointing to a closed brown folder on the desk, that the president is at the head of a rotten administration.
And for simply raising questions about the financial policies of Banurbano, Ibrahim Khalil and his daughter were killed. Like dogs, he repeats.
Guillermo is tired. He wants to stop talking but can’t. He thinks of his family in Mexico and says that there are those who might say that he, like Ibrahim, has a death wish, and should just shut up. He tells the camera that he has two wonderful children who he loves with all his heart and who are living safely in Mexico. He has no desire to die, but he needs to tell the truth, to expose the cancer eating up the body politic of Guatemala. His children won’t be better off with his death, but hopefully the country will, as long as the people rise to the challenge and confront the president and the cycle of corruption he has perpetuated.
And if in fact Guillermo has been killed, then he implores the vice president to take over the reins of power and rid the government of the liars who swept Ibrahim and Maryam’s deaths under the rug.
At this point, Guillermo can’t control himself any longer. He needs something to drink, preferably alcoholic, to steady his nerves. He starts calling the president, his wife, and all his cabinet ministers clowns, drug dealers, malcontents. He goes on to say that he wasn’t born to be a hero, just a decent Guatemalan. And this is why he is making this accusation, to reestablish a sense of decency in a wayward country.
“We need to rescue Guatemala from all these thieves, drug dealers, and murderers. Let no one deny that the murdering president, his thieving wife, and all his henchmen are responsible for the destruction of Guatemala. Don’t let them hide. Ladies and gentlemen, let my death have a first name and a last name . . . There’s still time for you to do something to liberate us. This is the time for action.”
When Guillermo finishes talking, he puts his hands
on the table and waits. His fingers stop moving. The camera rolls on for another minute, during which he sits perfectly still. He is about to collapse, to vomit really, but he knows he cannot lose his composure. He has to stay still. He knows nothing about the editing of film or video. He hopes that the editor will be able to delete all his repetitions and make him less a fool.
Guillermo grabs the mask from the floor, stands up, and starts walking toward the door where Miguel is sitting. The latter puts a finger to his lips and indicates that Guillermo needs to put the mask back on. But first he gives Guillermo a hug and places a kiss on his cheek. “Your courage overwhelms me,” he whispers. “There’s no point in refilming this. The recording is absolutely perfect.”
Miguel releases the lawyer, puts on his own mask, and taps on the door to let the cameraman in. Then he tells the cameraman, “You have fifteen minutes to finish up here.”
“Yes sir.”
“Remember, put the tape in the trash bin at 13th Street and Ninth Avenue at exactly nine p.m. and simply walk away.”
The cameraman nods.
Miguel and Guillermo leave quickly. When they are halfway down the stairs they take off their masks. Guillermo breaks into tears, convinced there’s no way to stop what’s been put into motion.
“You were amazing. That is all I can say. Simply amazing.”
“You think so?” Guillermo sniffles. He feels he has just hammered the final nail into his own coffin.
“You’re a true patriot, Guillermo. What a brave speech. You’ll be remembered for generations to come, you know that? You will appear in the history books—”
“I just need a drink.”
“Well, let’s get out of here and go to our usual spot.”
“What happens next?”
“A film editor will create a straight recording from the time you sat down at the table to the time you stopped talking. It won’t be edited in the least, should someone later claim that the video has been tampered with. The editor has been instructed to make fifteen copies of the DVD, which will be given to me. I’ll keep them under wraps until the second part of the plot—your death—can be put into motion.”
“My death?”
“Of course. But it will all be painless, as promised. The country will be plunged into mourning by your death. And at your burial, we will hand the press the copies of the DVD and see how long the president stays in power.”
“It sounds foolproof.” Even as Guillermo says this, he is wondering if there is any way to get out of this. Yet only Miguel can throw him a lifesaver.
“It is, my friend. It is foolproof.”
“And when am I supposed to die?”
“This Sunday morning.”
“What if I change my mind?”
Before they get into Miguel’s car, he hugs Guillermo tight and whispers, “You won’t.”
It’s obviously too late to retreat.
The fuel is there. It just needs a match.
chapter twenty-six
a bicycle built for two, maybe three
It is seven a.m. Sunday morning and Guillermo gets his Pinnarello mountain bike out of the back bedroom and parks it in the living room. He truly loves his bicycle now that Braulio has had it restored. It has twenty speeds and is made of the lightest of carbons, so that it can be lifted with one hand. It’s a model of engineering genius. Actually, it can be balanced on two fingers once it’s been hoisted up.
Guillermo goes out to the terrace of his apartment. The sun is shining. The flamboyant tree below is about to burst into bloom. Soon there will be orange flowers falling on the grass and into the central fountain, something he will not live to see. He stares off in the distance and sees the tranquil surface of polluted Lake Amatitlán. Beyond the water he sees a plume of smoke rising up from the Pacaya volcano against a blue sky. He is horrified by the thought of never again seeing the people and places that have accompanied him for nearly fifty years.
Guillermo opens the refrigerator and takes out a plate of frijoles volteados and tortillas wrapped in cloth. He puts them in the microwave for twenty seconds and then pours himself a glass of orange juice for the dead man’s last meal. Within the hour, the world will be spinning without him, though he imagines his face will be plastered across the front page of every website reporting Guatemalan news. He wonders if anyone at this very moment is even thinking of him. Perhaps Ilán or Andrea.
Who is going to call them to tell them their father has been killed?
Miguel has helped Guillermo devise a perfect plan, so that there will be no way to trace the killing back to him. Miguel called a cousin who had been affiliated with the Mano Blanco back in the eighties, when the guerrillas were threatening to destroy civic catholic society. The cousin has anonymous connections to three assassins: a cashiered sergeant whose brutality is known throughout the country and is now working with the Zetas of Mexico to bring Colombian cocaine to the US via landing fields in the Petén; an oreja who serves in the presidential guard and is a member of Opus Dei; and a glue-sniffing criminal who has been in and out of prison for years and is reputed to have murdered half a dozen people for a handful of quetzales.
Any of these criminals would be happy to execute a stranger, no questions asked, for the paltry sum of 2,400 quetzales. The killer will do the shooting and disappear.
Guillermo looks at the food on the table one last time and is unable to eat a thing. He had been drinking all night, still gathering the courage to go through with his suicide. He is beyond depression and yet keeps thinking about his kids and his desire to see them again. He is upset by the thought that they will be ushered through college by Rosa Esther’s uncle, or by a new rich Mexican boyfriend. Still, he has set something in motion—the video has been made, the murderer hired. Guillermo can already hear the outraged speeches that his cohorts will be making at his burial at the accusation that the president was the architect of his murder.
The mole-faced president is about to wake up to the biggest surprise of his shitty life, thinks Guillermo. He has no idea what is awaiting him. A downside to the suicide is that he will not get the chance to see the president’s face blanch, tick nervously, and tighten up like a ball of tissue when he is served the news that even the dead want him out of office. And the president will glance around to see the face of his wife, that sow who believes the world is fooled by her constant photo opportunities in which she hands over a thirty-dollar monthly payment to an Indian family to demonstrate the government’s generosity.
Maybe the president will be placed in the same prison as Byron Lima who oversaw the murder of Bishop Gerardi in 1998. Let’s see which of the two makes it out of jail first.
Guillermo is sure the manila folder he is leaving in his gym bag with Ibrahim Khalil’s documents will be a trove of incriminating evidence for independent investigators. He hopes Ibrahim’s discovery that Monsieur and Madame President were siphoning funds from Banurbano to place in secret accounts is sufficient evidence to have them both arrested.
* * *
Miguel Paredes’s brilliant plan is to have Guillermo at the designated assassination spot at eight a.m. A ten-minute ride from his building.
Guillermo is ready at seven thirty. He has a splitting headache—his body is rebelling against him. Dying, putting an end to it all, is obviously the only solution.
He goes down the hall to the bathroom overcome by excruciating pain, brought about by the nonstop ingestion of almost pure alcohol. Nothing comes out—it must be gas. He goes back to bed to lie down, just for a minute. He is tired, extremely tired. He doesn’t intend to sleep, but he does. When he wakes up it is ten to eight. He needs to hurry.
He races across the apartment, gets his bike, and takes the elevator down to the basement. As usual no one is in the elevator. The doors open and he walks his bike across the nearly empty garage and up the back ramp to the door, which leads to the garbage dumpster on the side of the building. From there he can take the alley, used only by the garbage trucks th
at come every Thursday, to the main road.
His route through the alley is the only way to avoid being seen. Actually, it doesn’t matter if Guillermo is seen or not, by either the lobby or parking attendant. Once the news of his death is announced, who cares who has seen what?
He doesn’t need anyone’s permission to go for a bicycle ride on an early Sunday morning. Still, he prefers to be cautious and not to be seen. Or rather he doesn’t want to get into a conversation with a tenant or the guard in the guardhouse. None of the usual banter: It’s a beautiful day, sir. Any news from the family? I have a package for you. All the innocuous blah blah blah.
Guillermo goes out the parking lot door, which for some reason does not shut behind him. Should he go back and close it to protect his few neighbors from any potential burglars? He frankly doesn’t care, since he won’t be coming back. The door can remain ajar.
It is a spectacular morning. The wind blows softly and it’s cooler than it has been in recent days. He walks his bicycle along the alleyway that smells of stale beer and, oddly enough, almonds, though there are no almond trees around. When he reaches the avenue he notices the long shadows from the eucalyptus trees growing on the lawns of the houses across the street from his building. His neck feels a bit sore, but the tightness eases as he stretches, moving his head in gentle circles. He leans the bike against his hip and extends his arms to the side.
Enough stretching: he’s ready to go.
He mounts his bicycle and begins peddling. What a pleasure to ride a machine so carefully designed as to nearly ride itself. The gears shift effortlessly with hardly a trace of sound or friction, only the soft click of the derailleur. His legs are pedaling at a good clip. Maryam loved his lean and powerful legs, like those of a stallion. She liked grabbing his ass in her hands, trying and failing to shake it loose from his trunk.