It is clear to Guillermo that the priest is in a rush to finish the service. He now knows why. One of the government officials is circling a finger in the air, as if to tell him to wrap it up. Glancing across the pews, Father Reboleda asks the mourners if anyone else wants to say something.
Guillermo is shocked by the silence, by the fact that no one — absolutely no one — gets up and speaks a word about Ibrahim or Maryam. Maybe it would have been different if Samir had gotten a Lebanese Maronite priest to lead the service.
Few of the mourners know of Guillermo’s existence, and he suspects that Samir will be angry if his wife’s lover gets up to speak — even if he were the only one to know of his role in Maryam’s life. But little by little, Guillermo is realizing that, with his love gone, he has nothing to lose. He looks at the statue of Christ at the rear of the altar and shakes his head. He then stands up and walks down the central aisle of the church and up the steps to the lectern. He wants the audience to know that Ibrahim was an honest man and that Maryam was an exceptional human being, a person who was cultured and educated, who read the Economist while many of her girlfriends read Vanidades.
He glances at Maryam’s urn and gasps. Tears begin to choke him and he is unable to speak. A church beadle approaches him with some tissues, and whispers a few words in his ears, trying to help him regain his composure. Guillermo glances at Samir, who is sitting hunched and silent; he knows that he can’t confess his love for Maryam in front of her supposedly grieving husband and friends, but he does want to say a few words about the woman he has just lost. To some degree it will be an open confession, and he realizes he needs to focus his remarks more on the death of his friend Ibrahim.
Guillermo grabs the lectern with both hands to steady himself. Finally he begins to speak: “As some of you know, I was Ibrahim Khalil’s private attorney. He had many legal counselors to handle his varied interests: a real estate lawyer, a tax lawyer, and even a corporate lawyer who handled the petty suits that were filed against him each year by aggrieved employees and customers. I had a special distinction: I was his privileged friend and his personal lawyer. I also happened to work with him on issues related to his appointment to the Banurbano advisory board — I will talk about that more, later, but I want to say that I was more than a lawyer: I considered Ibrahim a close friend.
“I can assure you that in the coming weeks I will provide you with new, uncontroverted evidence supporting the revelation — I won’t call it a theory — that Ibrahim and Maryam were murdered. While I was aware of some rumors regarding Ibrahim’s purchase of textiles and cloth from Germany and England, I believe these were a smoke screen perpetrated by his true assassins. When I have gathered the appropriate evidence, you will hear the truth. I will provide proof that he was on the verge of exposing dozens of questionable if not illegal transactions at Banurbano involving elected officials at the highest level of government — perhaps going as high as the president himself.”
Guillermo glances down at the mourners who are staring blankly back at him, almost as if he were lecturing to them in Chinese. At the same time, he realizes he is saying too much. There are individuals in attendance who may have vested interest in his accusations, like the four men sitting in the back.
“But this is not what I meant to say at this memorial service. Some of you may know that through my friendship with Ibrahim, I had the privilege of meeting his daughter Maryam.” Guillermo nods his head to Samir, who now sits straight up in the first row of the pews, immutable as a Mayan stela, without an expression on his face.
“Because of the legal advice I provided Ibrahim, I was able to lunch with him and Maryam many times. She was a beautiful woman, gracious and intelligent, with a fierce commitment to the care of her father and, if I may add, her husband. As Samir Mounier has stated, she was Ibrahim’s sole support after his own wife died from cancer. She was selflessly dedicated to ensuring both his health and his happiness. She was a lovely human being with a heart of gold.”
Guillermo begins wiping away tears. His heart aches so much that he is afraid he will actually confess his love for Maryam to the mourners. He has to find a way to finish.
“In closing, I only want to ask all of you to remember the goodness of Ibrahim’s and Maryam’s souls. Let’s not forget their dedication, not only to one another, but to all the friends and acquaintances gathered here today. It was our privilege to know them. They were among those few Guatemalans dedicated to justice, law, and truthfulness. In contrast, our leaders are dedicated to amassing personal wealth at the expense of people like Ibrahim who would dare to clean up the filth of their government.”
Guillermo knows he should stop now, but he can’t — rage has gotten control of him. “To honor Maryam and Ibrahim, I want to ask each and every one of you to combat the lethargy that has delivered our once wonderful country into the hands of drug dealers, thieves, and murderers. I know I am risking my life by saying this, but my friends were killed like dogs because they were standing in the way of those who want to continue laundering ill-gotten money—”
With tears blinding his eyes, Guillermo cannot speak anymore — and he shouldn’t. He makes his way back down the steps of the altar. Hands are clapping loudly, and there’s a palpable stirring of emotion in the church for the first time. Guillermo has struck a nerve and everyone is feeling it.
The priest returns to the lectern and delivers a few closing comments about devoting one’s life to Jesus Christ. Religion has never seemed so hollow to Guillermo as now. As if useless prayers can erase the loss that he and many in the audience feel.
The service has come to an end, and the public mourning of Ibrahim and Maryam is about to expire.
* * *
Guillermo sits alone in the last pew as people file out of the church. He hadn’t seen her in attendance, but Hiba comes over and hugs him with real feeling.
“You were her guiding star,” she whispers before hurrying out.
All this time he was sure she hated him. He wants to run after her but realizes how absurd it would look. He stays seated, with the odd dignity reserved for honest people who speak their minds despite the consequences.
He can’t imagine her sticking with Samir, now that Maryam is gone. Guillermo feels a bit vindicated, though he is suddenly seized by the desperate finality of it all. He walks down the nave toward Samir, who has gotten up from his seat and is talking with the priest. There is an unidentifiable smirk on his face — could he actually be happy? Guillermo wants to grab him by the shoulders and punch him in the face. Repeatedly.
A well-dressed man steps out of the third row of pews and offers his hand. “I was impressed by what you had to say.” He is a balding man in his early sixties, but in excellent shape, judging by the way he fills out the jacket of his dark blue suit. Guillermo is certain they have never met, but he looks familiar, as though he has seen his face in one of the newspapers, or on television.
“Miguel Paredes, at your service.”
“Guillermo Rosensweig.”
Miguel smiles. “Of course, I know exactly who you are.”
Guillermo feels embarrassed. “Yes, of course.”
“You know, you only hinted at it, but I agree there’s something here that makes no sense. You almost get the feeling that Ibrahim and Maryam’s deaths are part of a larger plot. And it’s certainly discouraging that both the husband and the government representatives are more than willing to sweep the Khalils’ remains under the rug, as if they were dust.” Paredes is not a particularly handsome man, but his gift of gab gives him charisma.