“In Paris! In Paris! That’s where we would go. But Maryam is dead.”
Miguel pauses to wet his lips on his drink. “Do you really want to die?”
“As things now stand, I do. My life tastes like shit. I wish I could find someone to kill me because I am too much of a coward to kill myself. I would pay him to do it.”
The bar is quiet; there are only a few clerk types drinking beer at the bar and watching the TV screen — Comunicaciones is playing soccer against its crosstown rival Municipal. Guillermo had no idea that local soccer games were now being transmitted on cable.
Miguel inches closer toward him. “I can help you kill yourself painlessly — but only if you take someone else down with you.”
Guillermo’s head is spinning. “I have a dear friend who read a shitty French novel and wants to help me commit suicide,” he says softly to himself. “What a wonderful friend.”
“Only if you want to.”
Guillermo doesn’t know what to say. His own departure from this planet has already become a given — according to Miguel Paredes. “Who do you want me to take down? Samir wouldn’t be enough. He may have wanted Ibrahim and Maryam dead, but I don’t believe he would actually have done it. I doubt that a suicide letter accusing him would change anything. It would be seen as the rantings of a madman consumed by grief.”
“You’re right. Accusing someone as unimportant as Samir wouldn’t make a difference. But there are others who make living a decent life in this country impossible. And both you and I have the evidence to prove it.”
Guillermo is confused. “Oh yes, I know who you mean. Mayor Aroz, for example. He is buying up this whole neighborhood so he can turn it into Disneyland.”
“I was thinking of someone higher up.”
“Óscar Berger? Who gives a shit about that useless ex-president? You are simply wasting my death.”
“What about going after the president himself? You yourself have said that Khalil had documents proving his financial shenanigans. I think we could create a scenario where we might force him to resign — in shame!”
Guillermo stares into his now-empty glass. “You’re crazy! No one would take my word over the president’s. Ibrahim Khalil believed he could bring him down — see where that got him? Killed, and he and his wife are still roaming around free. No thank you. I’d be dying in vain.”
“If we plan this thing correctly, we could bring down the government — the whole house of cards.”
“You’re dreaming, Miguel.”
There is a pause. For some weird reason Guillermo thinks of Carlos, who worked with his father at La Candelaria. He hasn’t thought of him in twenty years. But at this very moment Guillermo wonders if he is still alive. He was such a loyal employee — maybe he thought that one day he would inherit the lamp store and that’s why he was so devoted. Guillermo should try and contact him. When he awakes from his reverie, he sees Miguel looking dead at him.
“What?”
“What what?”
“Why are you staring at me in that way?”
“I want you to know something: what I am thinking is not a dream.”
“What would you have me do?”
“I’ll explain, but it requires bravery.”
Guillermo peers at Miguel through glassy eyes.
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.