La guerra de Desiré

Por Leonel Enoc Baca Navarro

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.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Letrame Grupo Editorial
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 10 abr 2024
• ISBN: 9788410683877

Vista previa del libro

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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