chapter twenty

jimmy cracked corn, and i don’t care

In the weeks that follow there’s a big brouhaha as the president appoints a special independent prosecutor to investigate the deaths of Ibrahim and Maryam Khalil. Since Miguel is the only one in possession of the tape, the query is nothing more than feathers flying in the hen house with no trace of the fox. The prosecutor assembles a team of investigators to study the circumstances of this double homicide and uncover the actual assassins. But since no one ever really wants to know what’s happening or has happened in Guatemala, the investigation resembles a 1920s silent movie in which a dog chases its own tail for forty minutes.

Every week dozens of dead bodies appear in Guatemala City: corpses in alleys, in ravines, on street corners, at bus stops, and even inside of city buses, mostly at night. Of every hundred deaths, the police and detective squads are able to bring one or two culprits to justice. And even in these instances, those found guilty are often merely the hired hands of the true agents of the murder.

All this begins to gnaw on Guillermo, like some undiagnosed bacteria. This, together with the immense loss he feels, is enough to debilitate him. His only remaining purpose in life is to find those responsible for the death of his love.

He becomes obsessed with the idea of impunity, that crimes can be committed and proof presented, but nothing done because the judge is paid off to render any concrete evidence inadmissible or tainted. He begins to see impunity everywhere: in people throwing garbage on the streets and driving off; horns sounding near hospitals; screaming in churches; people blowing smoke in your face on the street; moviegoers cutting in line to get the best seats; people tossing cigarette butts in restaurant glasses . . . everything revealing the absence of consequences.

Guillermo actually longs for the days of armed conflict when the guerrillas were the clear enemy, setting fire to Guatemala, The Land of Eternal Spring. Back then Ríos Montt and his lapdog Pérez Molina vowed to establish military order by using a heartless slash-and-burn policy. What were they expected to do? Play footsies with the guerrillas? Turn the country over to bearded thugs and masses of barefoot Indians supporting them?

What is happening now, with no distinct enemy, is more unnerving.

He knows for a fact that Ibrahim and Maryam have been unjustly eliminated and that no one, not even Maryam’s very own husband, cares why or how it happened.

The only one who seems to care is Miguel Paredes, and he is an expert at manipulation. He drops clues like bread crumbs to a starving man. Every time Guillermo’s desire to bring the murderers to justice flags, Miguel is there, ready to share some tasty tidbit to pique his interest. It is uncanny how this happens. Miguel, the master operator, knows exactly what to do and when to do it, and Guillermo obeys like a trained seal.

Very often the two men meet in the late afternoon at the Sophos Bookstore café. They like one table in particular, the one that looks over the patio below. It is in a corner and just steps away from the bathroom. As far as they know, the store is free of cameras.

The bookstore café fills with shoppers and writers, drinking lattes and macchiatos, ordering thin slices of pecan or lemon pie. Mild classical music plays softly from speakers in the background. It is the perfect venue for their conversations, much more so than Café Europa downtown, which is probably bugged. And meeting in such a quiet, sedate place gives their discussions a hint of respectability, as if all their dialogues about sinister plots and hired hands were legitimate possibilities.

In this setting, Guillermo orders a bottle of red wine and reveals everything he knows about the shenanigans of Banurbano. Miguel is more than happy to let his new friend talk as if to a father confessor. Guillermo feels that a load is being lifted from his shoulders and his heart as he’s allowed to speak openly about things he has held hidden. He repeats his theory that there was a third person in the car, but Miguel is not convinced. It doesn’t really matter: Guillermo is no longer the only person who knows what he knows, and this provides relief.

Within two weeks of the church service, Miguel Paredes finally feels confident enough to discuss with Guillermo his master plan: he lets the proverbial cat, which has been mewling and scratching more vigorously than ever, out of the bag.

“We need to consider that the government is behind Ibrahim’s death.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! The question is why.”

“To shut him up.”

“The president wouldn’t sink so low as to commit murder to silence an opponent.”

Miguel touches his friend’s hand. “Oh, but he would. Ibrahim’s investigations into the Banurbano accounts were making a lot of people uncomfortable. I wouldn’t be surprised if the president and his lovely wife were responsible for the murders. Guillermo, did you notice how quickly the special prosecutor disbanded his group of investigators? Ten days of investigation, no postmortem, no subpoenas of the files that you and Ibrahim have accumulated, no inquiry into the dropped calls and threatening messages. Whoever was behind this wanted the investigation to end. And you, my friend, are the only one who cares enough about the truth to change things.”

“Did you ever show anyone in the administration or the police the security tape?”

“Are you joking? Why would I? They would simply confiscate it and force me to provide them with every copy of the tape at the risk of death. I am brave, but not so brave as to smile down the barrel of a gun.”

A sober Guillermo Rosensweig would never have fallen for this ploy, but the absence of Maryam amplifies his sense of hopelessness. To counter his desperation, he takes a weekend trip to spend time with his children, who are now living in Mexico’s fancy Chimalistac district. The first thing he notices is that the teenagers are happy to be out of the butcher shop Guatemala has become, and are even resentful they didn’t move to Mexico earlier. They treat him with a certain coldness. The major issue for them is not the death of his girlfriend, but his own betrayal.

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.