La guerra de Desiré E-Book

Leonel Enoc Baca Navarro

• Herausgeber: Letrame Grupo Editorial
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Spanisch

Seitenzahl: 224

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Agusto has died in the war, it's true. But, does everything end with death? His girlfriend Desiré, tells us about the events leading up to his death, while their son Edmundo also details in retrospect the events leading up to his own life. They seem to hide family secrets that are about to be revealed. All of this in the war context of Nicaragua in 1980, Ronald Reagan, President of the United States, tries to stop the spread of communism in Central America. As we approach the present, the stories intertwine masterfully to reveal what appears to be a sad ending with flashes of happiness, or perhaps the opposite, a bright one with shades of tragedy. In this, his first novel, the author proposes a classic reading method, starting from Chapter 1 and ending in Chapter 29, or randomly following two alternative sequences that do not begin with Chapter 1 or end with Chapter 29, which will provide the reader with a more active participation in the story. Agusto ha muerto en la guerra, es verdad, pero, ¿termina todo con la muerte? Su novia, Desiré, nos cuenta los acontecimientos anteriores a su muerte; Edmundo, hijo de ambos, también nos detalla en retrospectiva los hechos anteriores de su propia vida, que parece esconder secretos familiares que están a punto de develarse en un contexto bélico. En la Nicaragua de 1980, Ronald Reagan, presidente de los Estados Unidos, intenta detener la expansión del comunismo en centroamérica. A medida que nos acercamos al presente, las historias se entrelazan de forma magistral para develarnos lo que parece ser un final triste con destellos de felicidad, o tal vez lo contrario: uno brillante con grises de tragedia. En esta su primera novela, el autor propone dos métodos de lectura: uno clásico, comenzando por el Capítulo 1 y terminando en el 29, y otro de forma aleatoria siguiendo dos secuencias alternativas que no comienzan con el Capítulo 1 ni terminan con el 29, proporcionando al lector una participación más activa en la historia.

Leseprobe

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Letrame Editorial.

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© Leonel Enoc Baca Navarro

Diseño de edición: Letrame Editorial.

Maquetación: Juan Muñoz Céspedes

Diseño de cubierta: Rubén García

Supervisión de corrección: Celia Jiménez

ISBN: 978-84-1068-387-7

Ninguna parte de esta publicación, incluido el diseño de cubierta, puede ser reproducida, almacenada o transmitida de manera alguna ni por ningún medio, ya sea electrónico, químico, mecánico, óptico, de grabación, en Internet o de fotocopia, sin permiso previo del editor o del autor.

«Cualquier forma de reproducción, distribución, comunicación pública o transformación de esta obra solo puede ser realizada con la autorización de sus titulares, salvo excepción prevista por la ley. Diríjase a CEDRO (Centro Español de Derechos Reprográficos) si necesita fotocopiar o escanear algún fragmento de esta obra (www.conlicencia.com; 91 702 19 70 / 93 272 04 47)».

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Dedication

To Margarita, a beautiful Frisian Woman, to whom one day in the heart of Holland I shared a vague idea: write a book. And whose response was an inspiring smile illuminated by the

Dutch summer sun.

To Eva Argentina Navarro Riso, whose stories

built my faith and philosophy.

In memory of Justo Leonel Navarro Cáceres.

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La Guerra de Desiré

VERSIÓN EN INGLÉS

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Dear reader, this novel can be read in several ways:

Method #1: Classic method, starting from chapter #1 in order to #29.

Method #2: The characters narrate their actions from their own perspective. Starting with

Desiré: 1, 4, 6, 10, 11, 12, 19, 22, 23, 17.

Chapter 16.

Then: Agusto: 2, 6, 7, 8, 13, 20, 29, 27.

Chapter 15.

Edmundo: 3, 14, 18, 26.

Chapter 25 can be read at any time.

Method #3: Events are narrated from different perspectives by the characters, intertwining the story until reaching a different final chapter.

16, 11, 13, 22, 3, 1, 4, 6, 5, 14, 2, 7, 25, 18, 15, 10, 9, 8, 19, 21, 23, 17, 12, 22, 26, 28, 29, 20, 27.

Method #4: Read the first 3 chapters, then you can choose the chapters you prefer, but you must finish with 27, 28, and 29.

1. Desiré I

“Death is the victory of Human progeny.”

Rubén Darío.

I still recall the sound of that night as I waited, absorbed, for the lifeless bodies of my beloved Agusto and his friend Heriberto. Forever etched in my mind is the heart-rending cry of my mother-in-law Esperanza, who rushed out among the crowd as soon as she saw the army truck with the two coffins. Complete silence, everyone bewildered, astonished by the scene as the truck drew nearer and nearer. Suddenly, Oh! Oh! My son, my Agusto! Oh! Echoed in the bitter and silent night, followed by the wails of family, friends, and an entire town that came to receive the bodies of their heroes. My eyes sought out Magdalena, Heriberto’s mother, who on the contrary remained somewhat distant, watching the scene with relative calm, sobbing, embraced by the arms of her relatives as if shielding a rose with shields of steel.

I felt an indescribable loneliness; my son in my womb would come to this bitter world, to this land shrouded in war, mourning, and tragedies without the consolation of a father. “Do not rush, my son, to come to this terrible world of mourning and horrors,” I thought as if he could do anything about it, my face wet with tears, my hands trembling like leaves in a cold wind without me being able to help it.

My father, Agusto’s younger brother; Eduardo, and three cousins who always followed them everywhere, are the only ones I remember carrying the coffins, the others, I don’t remember who they were, perhaps friends, cousins, or army personnel. The image of Magdalena trying with all her might to open the coffin, while my father tried to stop her by taking her arm not strong enough to let her know that the coffin was sealed, remained intact in my mind. Until, after some struggling, she gave in to cry on the floor, writhing. While others cried over her; the moans were many, the sobs were on all the faces I saw, everything seemed tragic, sad, murky, gloomy, Everything had lost its color. I felt death so close to me. And in my heart, perhaps in my soul, or my body, I don’t know. What a great mystery human pain is! There was a maelstrom of emotions in me, for beyond the pain caused by the death of my beloved Agusto, a darker secret hid in my entrails. A secret that began with Agusto and went with him to war, traveled in the love letters he sent me, a secret that was lost in my heart and would almost extinguish itself before the unforeseen situation of death, there were no more ears to which my lips wanted to tell because he had died. And my secret almost died if it weren’t for the future events of that unforgettable April night.

2. Agusto I

“With great joy men march to war,

With huge fervor they sing their battle hymns,

With anxiety they take their place in the trench,

With fear they hear the sound of bombs,

so slow blood trickles down their foreheads,

so fast they are forever forgotten.”

Oscar Hahn.

The first time I heard the expression “They shall not pass” was in 1983, a group of young soldiers repeated it fervently as they passed in a military truck in front of my father’s house. I was about fifteen years old and had no idea of the significance of this phrase, nor did I imagine that five years later I would find myself in the same situation as those young men. Then, in 1987, at twenty years old, I was keenly aware of my country’s situation. I had experienced firsthand the harsh realities faced by countries that dare to say “no” to the Yankees, especially at that time in the global context of the Cold War. Now, I identified with that phrase that had seemed foreign to me years ago, “They shall not pass”. Who? La Contra, a group of about fifteen thousand Nicaraguans who, after the Sandinista revolution, became enemies of the new government. Secretly organized by the CIA, they settled deep in the mountains, on the border with Honduras, in what was called the Sanctuary of La Contra, about ten kilometers from the Nicaraguan border. From there, they received arms such as M16 rifles, RPK machine guns, RPG-7 grenade launchers, supplies like food, ammunition and, of course, the occasional gringo who came to reinforce the ranks of La Contra. For history, there would remain the famous image of those three young boys from the Sandinista People’s Army who, in 1986, brought down that mysterious plane on the Honduras border. Inside it, Eugene Hasenfus, an American who confessed everything: he was part of a secret CIA mission, and the infamous photo aimed to replicate one taken during the Vietnam War. This historic event is known as the Ronald Reagan scandal, Iran-Contra. To confront La Contra, thousands of young people were mobilized for two years to the most remote areas of the country. I was convinced that joining this cause, the Patriotic Military Service, was the right thing to do. I wanted to go to the border to stop those sons of bitches, despite the fear that invaded me at times, the uncertainty of leaving my family, Desiré, my sweet love. What if I never saw her again? What if I lost my life in the war? Or if she simply forgot about me? Nevertheless, that old slogan had penetrated deeper into my being. “Without a youth willing to sacrifice, there can be no change,” Carlos Fonseca had said, and I was willing to give my life for my country.

As for myself at that time, I must admit that knowing we could have had a better life and it didn’t happen was a small unconscious trauma I had to deal with in my adolescence and part of my youth. I would have preferred, without a doubt, to live in poverty, without having found out that my father, in my childhood, owned one hundred and fifty acres of land, about a thousand two hundred head of cattle, and lost it all. After much alcohol, that deceptive elixir that seduces the senses and weakens a man’s will, everything would be reduced to just one acre of land. On it stood a small rustic house, adobe walls, tiled roof, pine wood doors, no floor, where my mother and my brother Eduardo lived. Behind that house, about twenty meters away, I lived in a small room that was clumsily built with my own hands and with the help of my brother. The rest of the property was used to grow corn, some vegetables like pumpkins, enough for a simple peasant lifestyle. From Monday to Friday, I worked in the cotton field of Don Vicente, Desiré’s father, in the mornings. This job required sharpness, as it was done under high temperatures, and the cotton fiber was rough, leaving marks on hands and arms from the constant rubbing. In the afternoons, around three o’clock, I would return home. Sometimes, I would pass by my friend Heriberto’s house. His mother Magdalena, a high school teacher, knew many things and was very kind to me. She would often offer me coffee and tell me interesting stories about the Sandinista revolution, the World Wars, life in the town, and how it had changed. “Nicaraguans are brave by heritage and nature,” she used to say, in an attempt to explain Nicaragua’s continuous wars. Malpaisillo, the name of the town, comes from “Malpai,” a type of stone that extended through the area, one of the many things I learned in those conversations with her. I enjoyed listening to Magdalena, but after a while, I would get bored, so it was necessary for my good friend Heriberto to intervene politely to get me out of there. Sometimes, we spent time watching the atmosphere at the cockfighting arena; other times, we went horseback riding or cycling to a river somewhat far from the town, escaping from the high temperatures. But what unified our friendship was the revolutionary spirit we both shared, the common desire to join the military service. On weekends, I would catch glimpses of Desiré. On Saturdays, after her theology seminar classes in town, where she taught. And on Sundays, after Sunday school at the church, which I attended to see her.

3. Edmundo I

“It’s not enough to be brave to learn the art of forgetting, a symbol, a rose, tears you apart, and a guitar can kill you.”

Jorge Luis Borges.

It was Nicaragua in the eighties, it was the time of the Cold War in the world, and I wasn’t born yet. In this land of volcanoes, clean water had not reached many families, but Russian and American weapons had. While children played in the streets of León as the good guys and the bad guys, the distant echo of the Cold War reverberated around the world. Out there, in the halls of power, espionage networks intertwined, and decisions that could change the course of entire nations were made. In here, in the hearts of the citizens, one could feel the beat of a newly born hope, the belief in a future built upon the ashes of oppression. While in the developed world, personal computers and digital communications were lighting up, here radio and handwritten letters were the heralds of information in an era where connections were hard to come by. The information age had not yet reached these shores. Out there, in the outside world, the shadow of HIV/AIDS began to spread, a disease that respected neither borders nor prejudices. In here, in the land of volcanoes, the people faced their own challenges, battling against poverty and the lack of basic resources due to the economic blockade established by America. Out there, nuclear arsenals were being amassed. In here, only wheat and corn were amassed in the containers. It was Nicaragua of the eighties, three million people in a territory of one hundred thirty thousand square kilometers. Revolutionary murals painted all over the country reaffirmed what Darío had written: “Nicaragua is made of vigor and glory.” My grandmother Esperanza lived through that moment known as the Day of Joy when in 1979 the Sandinistas made a reality what for many was an impossibility, “the triumph of a popular revolution.” The spirit of the Nicaraguan working class rebelled against a brutal dictatorship, and after forty years, the last of the tyrants, Somoza’s son, left the country. The moment had arrived, the final offensive succeeded, “here, free Nicaragua” radios transmitted, which until that day only broadcasted clandestinely. Women with rifles on their shoulders and their children in their arms smiled, guerrillas embraced each other, church bells in the villages rang for hours, fists were raised. It was an indelible moment, like the immortal of chess, like the victory of Thermopylae. In short, there was emotion in the hearts, and this cry of victory crossed borders, of course it reached the White House on a Thursday afternoon, while “democrat” Carter, President of the United States of America, was about to enjoy his presidential glass, white wine, the same one he involuntarily dropped upon hearing the news of “here, free Nicaragua.”

“How is it possible?” he wondered, if months earlier calculations from the American State Department indicated that the Sandinistas were no more than a hundred guerrillas. What a surprise, what a bucket of cold water in the midst of the Cold War. It was Nicaragua of the eighties and an economic embargo by the United States made it difficult to import basic products such as food and medicine, leading to scarcity of goods in the market, rising prices, and one of the countries with the highest inflation rates in the world. Thus was Nicaragua, and there were two defined sides: the Contras (former members of Somoza’s National Guard) who, after the Sandinista revolution triumphed, organized themselves on the border with Honduras. The Sandinistas, “the cubs of Sandino,” young students, brave, with revolutionary ideas, about twelve thousand repeating “they shall not pass!” forming a kind of human Maginot Line, built on bullets and bravery. My father Agusto was one of them.

4. Desiré II

“Hope, that throws us into life’s dance,

to overcome the rigors of destiny.

Hope, our sweet friend

that eases sorrows

and turns our path into a garden.”

Guillermo Aguirre y Fierro.

Perhaps I was just seeking to find some hope on that unforgettable night. I looked around, despair everywhere, anguish in every expression, melancholy in every soul, especially in those close relatives, like Agusto’s mother, whom I remember for her strength throughout the wake. She always seemed to me a very expressive, sensitive, charismatic woman, yet also serious and of strong temperament. Heriberto’s father remained almost motionless, taciturn, with his sunglasses that didn’t do much to hide his constant sobs. Although I never had long conversations with him, he seemed to be quite a macho man, unwilling to be seen crying, even if it was for his own son, who lay in one of the two sealed coffins adorned with flowers of all colors and sizes.

I felt kicks from my son in my womb, as if saying, “Here inside, it’s less chaotic. So many complaints about life, only to make such a fuss about death.” I smoothly touched my belly, and gently, Esperanza, who after much fatigue seemed to be calmer, placed her hand on mine, looked at me, and said:

—Lovely baby, or perhaps… a lovely little girl? —Her face drew a small smile, expressing tranquility.

—What do you think?

—I believe it will be a boy, with his pointy shape at four months.

She simply moved her lips a bit. There was an old village belief that if the belly had a pointy shape, it was a boy, whereas if it was more elongated, it was a girl.

—He’s been kicking a lot —I added, guiding her hand to a part of my belly that didn’t move.

—He doesn’t want to say hello to Grandma, or maybe he’s already asleep —she added playfully.

—It’s a boy, Esperanza, and his name will be Edmundo. I wanted to keep it as a surprise, but it’s better to tell you now. It seems you have a good eye for bellies.

—And what do you think of the name Oliver? —she immediately asked.

—My mother told me that when you found out, you would recommend that name to me —I said, smiling.

Esperanza proposed that name to everyone, having some kind of obsession with recommending it to all expecting mothers of boys. Later that night, I would realize why she was so insistent on that name.

She smiled.

I felt that after intense crying, she somehow found a kind of peace in her grandson in my womb, so she came to caress my belly.

—And what about your son Eduardo, Esperanza?

—There he is, just went to get all the preparations for tomorrow’s burial. He insists on being buried next to his dad. I want him to be buried in a better place.

—Wouldn’t you like the new part? Agusto would be the first one there.

—Yes, but it’s very expensive for that part.

—Esperanza, my father will support everything, don’t worry.

—I know, my girl, and I appreciate your family’s great support.

In the village cemetery, there were many forgotten graves without descendants to take care of them, so people asked the municipality for permission to keep that piece of land and bury their dead there. There were certain officials who evaluated the case, while others simply took over the graves, turning them into private plots. The most common case was Mrs. Petronela, who was said to take the forgotten graves as her own. She would come at night or early in the morning to remove the oldest tombstones and crosses from the cemetery so that it was known that the space without a tombstone belonged to someone. In their place, she would put up an improvised fence with sticks that delimited the new “unused” land, which she would then sell at a low price to people who, instead of buying a new plot from the municipality, went to her. After a while, when the mayor changed, the municipality regulated this situation more, and it was also known that it was Petronela’s son, a municipal official with influences, who always covered up his mother’s actions. Until today, she is known in the village as “the Grave Robber.” I don’t know what happened to her; when I returned to the village and asked, everyone was unaware of her whereabouts.

5. Desiré III

The wakes back then weren’t so different from those in Nicaragua today, except for the context of war. Once the person’s death was known, the family began the preparation of the wake on the same day. A vehicle with loudspeakers went out to announce the death of the individual on the streets of the village. Those who wished to join the wake would arrive that night where the coffin was ready, or in other cases, as it was this time, they waited until the bodies arrived. Friends, neighbors, acquaintances, and all those who wished to came to offer their condolences. Those who were responsible for the wake distributed coffee or Coca-Cola with bread so that the attendees had enough energy to withstand the usual sleepiness, usually until dawn or until there was no more coffee left, or until the conversations lost their laughter or their intrigues. Politics, old neighborhood gossip, or death itself were topics of conversation; others joked, there were laughs. Some chose to forget their sorrows with alcohol or to use the occasion as an excuse to drink one more day; others indulged in the trivialities of the occasion. But the feeling was the same, to be there as a symbol of empathy towards others’ pain. Some went to see the deceased, something impossible in this wake, given the state of decomposition of the two bodies, opening the coffins was prohibited.

The next day, among all the relatives, the coffin was placed in a vehicle adorned with flowers, and this slowly made its way to the cemetery while people followed it with cries, chants typical of the occasion, like that famous song that says, “When they take me to the cemetery, I don’t want anyone’s tears, just that they’re singing the song I like the most.” Sometimes the children also sang to their deceased parents that famous one by Piero, “Father, my dear father, now you walk slow as if forgiving time, I am your blood, my father, I am your silence and your time,” while the cries of pain only flooded the streets with a kind of sad solemnity that extinguished the brightness of the colorful little houses and the green of the surrounding trees. Finally, at the burial, relatives took the coffins and deposited them in the hole prepared beforehand by cemetery workers, who received payment for digging the hole with picks and shovels. Once there, with a rustic rope system, the coffin was lowered little by little while the family members around it cried and bid their last farewell by throwing flowers taken from the same bouquets that adorned the hearse, and so on until the workers themselves finished covering the hole with soil. How sad it was to see that scene where children with shovel in hand ended up covering their parents’ graves with dirt, or sometimes parents covered their children’s graves. Once this sad ordeal was over, and if there were still flowers left, the women decorated the mound that remained, burying them in the still soft earth. Everyone left little by little, leaving only the closest relatives, who sang or talked until the resignation of the last farewell, a last farewell that in this particular case would not come, at least not in the expected way, but as an uncertain wind in the surprising whirlwind of fortuitous events of this seemingly endless funeral.

6. Desiré IV“Reflection”

I still have that letter, the last one he gave me, that last dinner with my family before going to war. I cried a lot that day; I couldn’t sleep thinking about the tragedies of this war, about misery, injustice, atomic bombs. I felt devastated, scared, nothing made sense.

“Love life,” Agusto said in his letter.

I wondered, why, why war, and why did God allow it? After two years of Theology in Cuba, I already knew quite a bit about it, and I knew the technical answer to my questions, but my heart refused to understand; it simply didn’t comprehend why. My broken soul couldn’t find the explanation that my mind had.

I continued with my doubts: Did God collect prayers for peace? And if peace reigned, would God run out of prayers to collect? How to reconcile a God of love with evil and conflict? I wondered. I wasn’t satisfied with the theologians’ talk of free will, nor with the idea that evil is the absence of good, as some philosophers already suggested, even less with the notion that evil was allowed to eradicate it, as my mother said. There was something else for me, answers that I would find later during that tragic and wonderful moment of my life.

My faith, reason, and heart were in conflict. Desperate, I raised my eyes to the heavens and with all my might, like a volcano expelling all its energy, I exclaimed, “No!”

They still say in the village that that scream startled the hens, who began to cluck, in turn waking up their owners. Such was their fright that when their owners wanted to prevent them from leaving their grounds, it was enough to say, “Desiré is coming to scream,” and they obeyed as if by magic, an old village legend that didn’t amuse me much for some time. It seemed disrespectful to me.

Amidst all the mourning, I caressed my belly, lowered my gaze, and said softly to my little Edmundo, “Dream peacefully, my son.” I felt Esperanza’s hand fervently affectionate, like caressing a rose. I looked at her; she leaned on my shoulder, and without a word, we exchanged consolations. The night advanced, and I began to think of many beautiful memories, like the first day I met him.

7. Agusto II “A Speech”

I enlisted on November 10, 1987, a date I’ll never forget because it was my mother’s birthday. As usual, I brought her daisies and recited that famous bohemian toast poem. As I finished with the last line: “I toast to the woman, but not to that one, who finds pleasure in sadness, embers of unfortunate delight, I toast to one who cradled me since childhood in the cradle…”

She smiled, hugged me, and said, “I love you.” The following week, I would be at the border. Desiré arrived later with a dessert that we shared with Eduardo, my younger brother, and Heriberto, who joined the celebration later with his guitar, which he always carried with him. It was all a riot; little was said, but much laughter filled the air. Every expression was followed by several seconds of laughter; I enjoyed my mother’s presence, hugged her more than ever, and deep down, we all knew why. I would be leaving for the border the following week, and I wouldn’t see them for quite some time. Furthermore, there was the possibility that I might never see them again, so it was pertinent to have one last moment of celebration. Heriberto closed the celebration with that beautiful song he loved to sing, Today I Cut a Flower by Leonardo Favio.

Desiré said goodbye to my mother, to Heriberto, and finally gave me a passionate kiss in front of everyone. Heriberto approached me and said:

—I’ve arranged a small gathering with my comrades. They’ve agreed to come, but they’re a bit undecided about joining the army. We leave next week, and it would be good if they joined us. I thought maybe you could help me persuade them a bit. After all, you’re better at speeches and words.

—You’re right about that —I replied—, but you could try persuading them by singing; it might work better. And who are they?

—You know them; they’re actually cousins, family of the Baca clan.

—I’ve seen them but haven’t spoken to them. Alright, I’ll help you. Let’s go!

It was seven in the evening in the backyard of Heriberto’s house, a space filled with memories and shadows, where he lived with his mother. Under the full moon, its glow brought to life the mysterious silhouettes of the five young men who gathered there. Their figures were like mysterious cutouts, drawn with silver ink against the night. Three cousins: José, Gabriel, and Fernando, aged seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen respectively, formed a sort of semicircle under the sapote tree, which swayed its branches to the rhythm of the night wind. After formal greetings and warm welcomes from Heriberto, I began my speech:

—The battlefield is brutal; M16 rifles from the north, AK-47s, RPK machine guns are aimed at us, RPG-7 grenade launchers are ready. Many children of fear tremble and flee. To my mind comes Martí’s words, when he said: “The true man doesn’t seek where life is easier, but where duty lies.” I’m sure, my friends, that today’s convictions will change tomorrow’s realities.

There was a three-second silence. I observed the three young men in front of me, saying nothing. I continued: