They were left alone. Laura suddenly felt tired. She sat on the edge of the bed to take her shoes off; made of stiff leather, they seemed to him more rigid than wooden clogs. “I’m going to put some music on,” she said to him. “You’ll love it. Wait a minute.” She went into the bathroom and shut the door. He remained alone, wondering at everything he saw: the transparent vase on the bedside table, the table itself, the shelves full of books, when the sound of music hit him, a blow that Montezuma could never have imagined, like a coup de grâce yet full of joy, something that deafened him at first and then filled him with emotion. What music was that? When Laura came out of the bathroom, he asked her, “What am I listening to?” “There are many instruments,” she explained, “interpreting the music written by a man called Vivaldi. I put it in this box where it is being played for you because Vivaldi wrote an opera with your name. He made the music, which is the sound you can hear, to honor you, many years ago, much closer to the time when the captain of La Malinche landed here than to our present day.” And she thinks, How could Vivaldi have ever imagined that one day Montezuma would hear it on tape? Never! While Montezuma wonders what artifices Laura employed to make so many musicians play such strange sounds. What kind of sounds are they? What does one hear in them?
But Montezuma is not thinking. At this point he no longer thinks. He no longer wonders “what?” and “how?” Does not say, “It can’t be” or “I’m a Mexica Indian. I live differently from these people who have invented other ways of being.” He says nothing, remembers nothing as if what he sees might affect his being, in-