right, the driver jumps the lights on red, and now, for the first time, moves his head to see if the road is clear.
The Hotel Borges, as recommended by the Backpacker. It’s in the centro histórico, thirty-five dollars a night. At the reception desk, a callow youth in a blue suit explains something that he doesn’t understand. El quinto piso, he gets that much: fifth floor. The room is large, the furniture all looks as if it had been painted Bordeaux red with a spray-gun, not too tasteless really. Alexander lets himself drop on the bed. Now what?
Alexander goes out into the street. Mingles with the people. It is eight in the evening. The streets are full, he lets the crowd carry him along as he inhales other people’s breath. Diminutive police officers, wearing bulletproof vests in spite of the heat, blow whistles. When he stumbles over a hole the size of a drain cover in the sidewalk, he falls into the arms of the people walking the other way. They laugh, set the tall, clumsy European on his feet again. Then he is in a park, where goods are for sale all over the place. Meat and vegetables braising peacefully side by side in gigantic pans. There are rugs and jewelry, there are old telephones, circular saws, alarm clocks, there’s salted pigskin, there are things he can’t identify, in fact there’s everything: feather headdresses, puppet skeletons, lamps, crucifixes, stereo systems, hats.
Alexander buys a hat. He has always wanted to buy a hat, as he knows, and now there are good reasons to buy one. Now he could say: I need a hat in Mexico because of the sun. But he doesn’t. He buys the hat because he likes himself in a hat. He buys the hat to disown the principles instilled into him in his youth. He buys it to disown his father. He buys it to disown the whole of his life so far, the life in which he did not wear a hat. And why didn’t he, when it’s so easy? He feels like laughing. He actually does laugh. Or no, of course he doesn’t laugh, but he smiles. He lets himself drift with the crowd. Only now does he really belong with it. Now, with the hat, he is one of them. Now he can suddenly speak Spanish: I would like to have ... taco, tortilla? ... How much ... gracias, señor ... señor! He bows formally, as you should in bestowing an honorary title. The old woman giggles. She has only one tooth. Alexander drifts on. Eats his tortilla. Walk, stop, traffic. Crowds of tiny police officers again, blowing their whistles for no reason at all, you might think, but now, suddenly, he understands. They are just whistling—that’s all it is. Like birds. They whistle because they exist. An amazing discovery. They beat their wings, flap their hands, obscurely, irrelevantly, while the traffic, in obedience to some natural law or other, regulates itself.
Then there’s music in the air. Not police whistles, proper music. Still indistinct, but now and then the sound of a violin or a trumpet stands out: violin and trumpet! Typical Mexican instrumentation, the kind on Granny Charlotte’s shellac record. His excitement rises, he quickens his pace. Now it sounds as if a huge orchestra were tuning its instruments. Singers seem to be getting themselves into voice. What’s going on? Alexander is standing in a brightly illuminated square. The square is full of people, among them—he can hardly believe his eyes—small groups easily identifiable by their respective uniforms. Hundreds of musicians: bands large and small, ensembles of ten and duos, with massive sombreros or light straw hats, their uniforms trimmed with gold-buttoned facings or silver braid, with epaulets and fringes, pink, white, or navy blue, and they are all making music! At the same time! An inexplicable event. Like the sudden appearance en masse of mysterious insects. A procession? A strike? Are they singing in protest against the end of the world? Is this square the only place where a god of some kind can hear them?
Alexander walks around, listens as if in a
The Hotel Borges, as recommended by the Backpacker. It’s in the centro histórico, thirty-five dollars a night. At the reception desk, a callow youth in a blue suit explains something that he doesn’t understand. El quinto piso, he gets that much: fifth floor. The room is large, the furniture all looks as if it had been painted Bordeaux red with a spray-gun, not too tasteless really. Alexander lets himself drop on the bed. Now what?
Alexander goes out into the street. Mingles with the people. It is eight in the evening. The streets are full, he lets the crowd carry him along as he inhales other people’s breath. Diminutive police officers, wearing bulletproof vests in spite of the heat, blow whistles. When he stumbles over a hole the size of a drain cover in the sidewalk, he falls into the arms of the people walking the other way. They laugh, set the tall, clumsy European on his feet again. Then he is in a park, where goods are for sale all over the place. Meat and vegetables braising peacefully side by side in gigantic pans. There are rugs and jewelry, there are old telephones, circular saws, alarm clocks, there’s salted pigskin, there are things he can’t identify, in fact there’s everything: feather headdresses, puppet skeletons, lamps, crucifixes, stereo systems, hats.
Alexander buys a hat. He has always wanted to buy a hat, as he knows, and now there are good reasons to buy one. Now he could say: I need a hat in Mexico because of the sun. But he doesn’t. He buys the hat because he likes himself in a hat. He buys the hat to disown the principles instilled into him in his youth. He buys it to disown his father. He buys it to disown the whole of his life so far, the life in which he did not wear a hat. And why didn’t he, when it’s so easy? He feels like laughing. He actually does laugh. Or no, of course he doesn’t laugh, but he smiles. He lets himself drift with the crowd. Only now does he really belong with it. Now, with the hat, he is one of them. Now he can suddenly speak Spanish: I would like to have ... taco, tortilla? ... How much ... gracias, señor ... señor! He bows formally, as you should in bestowing an honorary title. The old woman giggles. She has only one tooth. Alexander drifts on. Eats his tortilla. Walk, stop, traffic. Crowds of tiny police officers again, blowing their whistles for no reason at all, you might think, but now, suddenly, he understands. They are just whistling—that’s all it is. Like birds. They whistle because they exist. An amazing discovery. They beat their wings, flap their hands, obscurely, irrelevantly, while the traffic, in obedience to some natural law or other, regulates itself.
Then there’s music in the air. Not police whistles, proper music. Still indistinct, but now and then the sound of a violin or a trumpet stands out: violin and trumpet! Typical Mexican instrumentation, the kind on Granny Charlotte’s shellac record. His excitement rises, he quickens his pace. Now it sounds as if a huge orchestra were tuning its instruments. Singers seem to be getting themselves into voice. What’s going on? Alexander is standing in a brightly illuminated square. The square is full of people, among them—he can hardly believe his eyes—small groups easily identifiable by their respective uniforms. Hundreds of musicians: bands large and small, ensembles of ten and duos, with massive sombreros or light straw hats, their uniforms trimmed with gold-buttoned facings or silver braid, with epaulets and fringes, pink, white, or navy blue, and they are all making music! At the same time! An inexplicable event. Like the sudden appearance en masse of mysterious insects. A procession? A strike? Are they singing in protest against the end of the world? Is this square the only place where a god of some kind can hear them?
Alexander walks around, listens as if in a
Similar Books
