The Song of the Swallow

By Angel Fernández

After the publication of his first novel and given the repercussions generated by it, the author continued the story with The Swallow's Song, a work that although it takes up a part of the previous novel, it has its own imprint.

The story takes place at a time marked by revolutions, revolts and international struggles. And in the midst of this scenario, in a convulsed Argentina shaken by extreme political violence, that of the fifties, a woman tries to survive not only a reality marked by the pain and fear of an increasingly complex country but also the burden and monotony of an unhappy marriage and an empty, aimless life.

The only possible solution will be to go out in search of "her purpose" and she will find it in a revolution that, although it does not belong to her, will give her the meaning she longs for.

It is precisely this path that will lead her through the seeds of the Cuban revolution in the company of "Che" and Fidel Castro.
Historical context

A group of young revolutionaries, calling themselves the "Centennial Generation" and led by Fidel Castro, determined to overthrow Fulgencio Batista (de facto dictator between 1952 and 1959 in Cuba), tried to take over the Moncada Barracks and the Carlos Manuel de Céspedes Barracks in 1953, but failed in the attempt. Batista managed to stop this revolt, tried them and sent them to prison. After almost two years of being deprived of their freedom, Fidel Castro and his comrades were released through an amnesty. They did not take long to form the M-26-7, a movement to overthrow the dictator. They headed to Mexico to reorganize and establish connections with allies who were sympathetic to the cause. In 1956, together with a group of guerrillas including Ernesto Guevara, they set sail on the Granma until they ran aground in the mangroves of Playa Las Coloradas, Cuba. Disoriented and dispersed, they could not immediately fulfill their plans and had to take refuge in Sierra Maestra. It is there where The Swallow's Song will reach its climax and a completely unexpected outcome.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angel Fernández
• Release date: Oct 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9789878853321

Angel Fernández

Ángel G:. Fernández es un escritor latinoamericano nacido el 03 de marzo de 1987 en Esperanza, un pueblo de obreros en las afueras de la Ciudad de Buenos Aires, Argentina.Los veranos de su infancia los pasó acompañando a sus abuelos maternos en Candelaria, un municipio alejado de la capital misionera, en donde adquirió especial gusto por las historias narradas por su abuelo sobre las leyendas guaraníes y los "Cuentos de la Selva", de Horacio Quiroga, los cuales le leía su abuela cada noche antes de dormir.Fueron aquellas narraciones y el contacto estrecho con la naturaleza, lejos de la contaminación tecnológica, donde comenzó a los doce años a recorrer el sendero de las letras y a darle vida a cuantiosas narraciones y ensayos literarios, tales como "Rambo Ratón", "El auto vampiro", y otros tantos poemas, muchos intentando revivir las coplas caballerescas de los antiguos trovadores medievales.Sus relatos se caracterizan por tener una magia especial que transforma situaciones cotidianas en escenas pobladas de fantasías.Ha sabido encontrar sus primeras inspiraciones en diversos autores latinoamericanos, tales como Gabriel García Márquez y Antonio Skármeta.Siendo un gran aficionado al periodismo, a la historia y a la filosofía, ha trabajado durante años en la manera de combinar aquello con sus trazados literarios, a fin de poder otorgarle al lector algo más que una simple narración. Fue así que nació su primera novela titulada Instinto de Supervivencia, publicada en marzo del 2016, en conmemoración de los cuarenta años del inicio del último gobierno militar en Argentina. Esta novela ha sido traducida y publicada en inglés en 2018. Posteriormente, en 2019, y con el mismo espíritu literario e histórico, “dio a luz” El Canto de la Golondrina.

Book preview

CHAPTER I

-Are you all right, Mommy? Her tender little voice takes me by surprise and pulls me out of my inner abyss. How can I make a seven-year-old understand the complexity of my thoughts in the face of such a painful event? If I always denied her pets because I didn't know how to explain to her the meaning of death, when the time came, how could I convey to her that I feel my soul slowly wringing at the news of the death of a woman who represented for me a beacon of light in a stormy night overseas? How could I explain to myself the strange situation in which I find myself?

While my thoughts are anxiously and haphazardly intermingling, her half-glued face continues to stare at me. She waits for an answer. Her pajamas are wrinkled, her hair is matted and her eyes are half open. She comes up to me and holds out her arms for me to pick her up and hug her. As if to make matters worse, her warm, sincere arms plunge me deeper into sadness and nostalgia. Unfailingly, tears begin to well up.

She pulls her head away from my shoulder and with her pajama sleeves dries my face and hers, which is wet with my tears.

-Don't cry mommy, you'll be fine, I'll take care of you," she says and hugs me again.

Undoubtedly, they are monsters sent by the devil himself to hurt us sweetly with their small, sincere and pure acts. How I wish she were a child forever, that she would never lose that innocence and fantasy that dominates her spirit. I see so much of myself in her. I would hate for her to have to go through all my experiences and end up becoming what I am. While I take comfort in knowing that she is growing up strong and healthy within the bosom of a family that loves her, I worry about the world she will grow up in.

If I had been asked, I don't think I would have ever brought her into this sick world where a woman is just a male accessory. If I had had a choice, cruel as it sounds, I would not have had one, at least not this early.

-Edith, why are you crying? -asks Salvador, worried. He has all the appearance of an early morning drunk. His long underwear, his protruding belly, his unkempt appearance.

-You're welcome," I answer coldly.

-For nothing? You're crying for nothing now? -he interrogates her grumpily. Suddenly he changes his tone and continues speaking more calmly. Please, tell me.

-I told you that nothing is wrong, and don't start nagging, it's too early. Come on, Mariel, let's get breakfast ready.

In other circumstances, I would have told her in detail what was happening to me, but even though I feel bad for answering her like that, I feel like answering her that way because we are not well. I am not well. For a long time I tried to be happy with him, but it simply wasn't and isn't possible. For years I wanted to feel for him the same way he feels for me, but how can you force your heart to fall in love with someone?

How many stories of heartbreak are there in this world? People chasing a dream love, an impossible love, a young love. People who live in a fantasy or spend their whole lives without emotion, without passion, without anything. I believe that if we could choose to fall in love with the one who loves us, instead of the one who will never love us, we would all live in eternal happiness. If we could command our hearts what to feel, there would be no disappointments and we would not suffer for love.

It is not that I don't love Salvador, on the contrary, I appreciate him very much, but he is no more than that. I appreciate him as a good friend. And I know I sound stupid, but I still hope I can find the man of my dreams, that person who is willing to give his life for me, a warrior, an idealist, a man who is able to travel to the other side of the world just to see me, to take care of me, to protect me. My biggest dream is that death will find me wrapped in his arms.

All my life I dreamed of having an idyllic love, a love filled with adventure and passion, but with each passing day, I am more certain that this wish is a literary utopia. The real world has no place for such a longing. Or it does, but it must not be as fantastic as we usually imagine. Like Frida and Diego. Two great lovers who never knew how to be happy together.

-Please answer me, can you tell me what's wrong? -Salvador asks again.

I look at him, indifferent, almost with contempt. I turn and walk to the bathroom. So far it is the only place where I feel completely at peace. Maybe because it's a place where we both can't be at the same time.

Before, I really cared about loving him, but since that episode, I only resent him. I never thought he could be capable of something like that.

I go into the bathroom, lock the door, collapse on the floor like a wet cardboard fortress, and burst into tears.

CHAPTER II

I take the note out of the envelope again. Before I knew it, I had rolled it into a ball. I can't believe she died. I have little admiration for her. A lifetime of suffering and yet she managed to forge an indomitable spirit, a unique and overwhelming character.

Someone once told me that those people who suffer the most are the ones who, in general, manage to leave their mark on this world, because that constant pain makes them lose their fear at the end, and they are capable of doing extraordinary things. These are the people who accept their eternal suffering and, almost as an act of rebellion, decide to face their own destiny. How much courage, how much bravery it takes to look death in the face and smile at it with a mocking air.

I reread the note. A feeling of immense anguish invades me. More than anguish, indignation, because one of the most important women in the world died and the newspaper narrates her death with disdain, frivolously, almost as if to fill a space in the newspaper rather than to give relevance to such news. Not a poem, not a farewell sonnet. Just a sort of graphic description of his cremation. All because of her communist stance. All for being a woman. All for being free.

I see something in the note that catches my attention. Some of the letters are darker. It is not a printing error, nor do they maintain a particular order. They are specifically marked letters, as if it were an encrypted message. I need to make a note of this.

I leave the bathroom, run to the bedroom to get paper and pen, and lock myself in again. I start jotting down letters that are different.

I need you, enunciate the letters encoded in the first paragraph. I am puzzled. Either I am going crazy or someone is truly sending me some kind of hidden message. But why would someone send me such a message? And, more to the point, who would need me?

-Are you all right? -Salvador asks after knocking on the door.

-Can't I be calm even in the bathroom! -I shout in a bad way.

One by one I arrange the letters. I read with special attention so as not to miss any key. The crumpled paper makes it a little difficult to interpret correctly.

This is your chance to make the change and be a heroine.

Clearly, whoever sent this has the wrong recipient. This letter must not be for me.

I flip the envelope over: To Edith Cruz Aguilar, Quiros 68, Cordoba, Cordoba, Argentina. Sender: El Rojillo, Mexico.

No. It is obvious that the letter is addressed to me, but who is El Rojillo? The only person I know on that site is Mom's brother, and I don't think he would send anything like that. The author of this has to be somewhere.

I read the clipping again, paragraph by paragraph, line by line. Finally I come across some marked letters in the last few lines. Although they are slightly marked, I manage to identify them: Teté. A huge smile emerges from the depths of my soul.

-Dale, can you come out of the bathroom and talk to me? -Salvador insists from the other side.

-What do you want? -I ask with irritation. After a couple of seconds, I open the door, look him straight in the eyes, with a defiant posture and say: "Can't you leave me alone?

-But what's wrong with you? I need to know.

-Are you serious? You're unbelievable. I can't believe you're acting like you don't know why I'm like this.

-You're never gonna forgive me, are you? -Should I?

-Should I? -You've already forgiven yourself?

-No, but I've already apologized to you, I've already admitted I was wrong. What else do I have to do for you to forgive me and go back to treating me like before?

-Not busting my balls would be a good start. On the other hand, no matter how many times you ask for forgiveness, it's never going to be enough. I am not a geisha who is there to serve you at your whim. Let me make it clear, you have absolutely no right over me. You raise your hand to me again and I assure you, I swear, that you are going to wake up castrated. Was I clear?

Salvador remained silent.

I know he didn't mean to hurt me or harm me. I know he really loves me and that my character is not easy to bear, but I will not allow him to do what my grandfather did to my grandmother until his last days. Men like that are nothing but trash.

He turns and walks away in silence.

CHAPTER III

Normally, one would think that one reaches the crossroads of one's life when one is in one's thirties or forties. In fact, there are several theories that claim that we ask ourselves crucial questions every ten years, as if the transition from one decade to the next marks us by fire. It could also be said that these questions are caused consciously and unconsciously, sometimes by certain social impositions that influence our daily lives, sometimes by comparing the life we wished we had as children with the one we actually have.

For example, my dad's life was programmed by these social obligations, clearly imposed by my grandfather. My family descends from an important naval lineage; I am even a descendant of Admiral Guillermo Brown himself. Having a military naval career, marrying a woman of good economic position or the daughter of an important officer and having a son to perpetuate the legacy were vital guidelines to deserve the honor