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 spinning 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.

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.