“I only said what my heart and mind told me to say,” Guillermo replies by way of explanation.
“May I be blunt with you, Mr. Rosensweig?”
“Of course. And call me Guillermo.”
“Well, Guillermo, some of us believe that your client and his daughter were definitely assassinated and that the murderers are being protected by the government and the Banurbano board of directors — just as you implied.”
Guillermo stares at Miguel. He wears turtle-shell glasses and has a large nose that twists to the side. He has sharp, hooded crow eyes, unsentimental and prone to blinking in a kind of nervous twitch, black and hard as obsidian, and unusually mesmerizing. His long arms hang to his sides as he speaks. He is grandfatherly, but his bulk suggests that he boxed or lifted weights when he was younger. Guillermo is immediately taken in by him, even seduced. Miguel reminds him of his old friend Juancho — or what he might have looked like had he taken up weights and lived into his sixties. He wants to trust this man.
“And you base your accusations on?”
“Some of the same information you have just alluded to. But you know, we should find another place to discuss this,” Miguel says, glancing around the church. “Are you in a rush?”
“A rush to do what? Clean my apartment?”
“Why don’t we go over to Café Europa on 11th Street where we can talk a bit more openly. It’s my treat.”
Guillermo nods. The two urns, weighing approximately two kilos each, will be placed in the wall of the church crypt at the Verbena Cemetery. He doesn’t want to stay to see this, and he can’t imagine going back to his office or apartment. He could call his children but he doubts they would neutralize his gloom. In reality, if it weren’t for this man’s invitation, he would go to some random bar, get stinking drunk, and weep.
chapter nineteen. play it again, sam!
Guillermo imagines that drinks with Miguel Paredes might produce some very interesting information as they walk single file down Sixth Avenue to Café Europa. It’s a short walk, but there are dozens of street vendors blocking both the sidewalks and access into the stores selling the cheapest conceivable merchandise: plastic dishes, generic electronics, shoes made of synthetic materials. Guillermo remembers when Sixth Avenue was the epitome of elegance, when he used to “sextear” with his friends: ogle the legs of the young secretaries as they walked to work in the adjoining buildings. But not anymore. There is talk that Mayor Aroz is considering turning Sixth Avenue into a pedestrian mall, but that may be years away.
They take a corner table on the second floor of Café Europa overlooking the Rey Sol Restaurant. It is the kind of bar that is perfect for discreet conversation: few customers, tables set apart; the ideal atmosphere for loners who want to drown their sorrows or talk without fear of being overheard. It has no charm: it simply is.
Miguel orders a black tea and some champurradas for himself while Guillermo orders a Cuba libre — rum and Coke — which is fast becoming his preferred anesthetic.
“So what do you have to say that requires so much privacy?”
“Guillermo, you are a typical lawyer, aren’t you?”
“Why do you say that?”
Miguel waits for the waiter to put down their drinks before continuing: “You don’t like to waste time on niceties or idle chatter, do you? I noticed that in your comments at the church. You cut to the chase!”
“Well, usually I am a busy man,” Guillermo says.
“And suddenly you don’t seem so busy.”
Guillermo doesn’t really want to talk about himself. “And who are you, Mr. Paredes? How do you fit in? I mean, why were you at the church? Ibrahim never mentioned you. I doubt you are a family friend.” He jiggles the glass in his hand, takes a huge gulp, and winces.
Miguel leans back in his chair and breaks off a tip of a cookie and dips it in his tea. “Well, I have held many positions and have done many things in my life. For years I worked as a business consultant providing firms with the necessary information and documentation required for government approval. You could say I was a facilitator who made sure entrepreneurs had the proper business permits to avoid too much government scrutiny — not that there ever was any.”
“I do a lot of that for my clients. I guess we are both facilitators.”
The waiter comes back with a small wire basket of chips and peanuts and sets it in front of them.
Guillermo orders another Cuba libre, grabs his half-empty glass, and clinks it against Miguel’s teacup, saying: “To the truth.”
“To the truth,” Miguel echoes.
Guillermo takes a final slug of his drink and uses his tongue to coax the liquid from the remaining ice cubes. “So from what you tell me, I surmise you were or are the necessary go-between for the Guatemalan way of doing business. The master of the soborno, the mordida. The bribe.”
Miguel laughs. “Not a very elegant way of describing what I have been doing for so many years, Guillermo. As I said earlier, I prefer to think of myself as a facilitator who made things happen.” He blinks his crow eyes several times. “I made sure things worked out smoothly, with minimum expense and delay. I still am a facilitator, only I don’t need a fully staffed, separate office to do that. You could say that I have downsized, and am now working more independently.”
“The grand facilitator has become an elegant independent contractor, it seems to me. And where do you work from now?”
Miguel lowers his eyes till they rest on his gabardine suit. He is wearing an Armani, a lovely blue outfit with the slightest of sheens. “Well, I do own a men’s clothing store in the Fontabella Mall in the Zona Viva. Maybe you have passed by Raoul’s. It’s on the second floor, near the Sophos Bookstore, where I sometimes stop to purchase a book on history and have my tea — a better kind of café than this, I must say.”
Guillermo laughs at the way Miguel tilts his teacup. “I can imagine. I’ve eaten at several of the restaurants on the first floor of Fontabella, but I don’t really have time to read books. . Your store must be lovely. Well beyond my means, I’m sure.” Guillermo’s second drink arrives, and he attacks it more gingerly now that his head has begun to spin.
“I don’t know about that. We have suits for all budgets. And the shirts we sell are custom-made by our own tailors, and much cheaper than those you can order from fancy stores in Miami or New York. If you know where to buy your silk and Egyptian cotton, by the bolt, custom-made shirts need not be so expensive. Well, yes, you can’t compare the price to the store-bought kind. But if you consider the difference between a shirt made by a Guatemalan tailor and one made in a sweatshop in Hunan Province, the price is decent. I must tell you, though, that my store is not my sole source of income. It is more or less a hobby.”
Guillermo is warming up to Miguel. He appreciates his unpretentiousness, which also reminds him of Juancho. He is less impressed, however, by Miguel’s volubility, which renders the simplest declarations circuitous. Without intending to, Guillermo has raised his eyebrows as if the conversation were boring him.
Paredes gets the hint and says, “I am sure you are wondering why I asked you here.”
Guillermo smiles.
“As I said before, I am still a kind of facilitator. I can make things happen. I enjoy playing that role, but not if it involves filling out forms, waiting weeks to have meetings, and getting permissions for others. I prefer to be an independent contractor. It gives me the opportunity to ensure that the right kinds of transactions take place quickly. Speed has become a kind of obsession for me.” He pauses.
“How interesting. You sound like a track star educated at the University of Heidelberg.”