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.”