I can't remember the precise moment it happened, but somewhere within the first few pages, You Dreamed of Empires became an immediate favorite.
And I mean an immediate favorite.
My most coveted books are the ones that make me excited for the passage of time. The books that have me glancing at the clock, waiting for that next stretch of reading. This was one of those.
I simply could not get enough.
I devoured most of this novel over the course of three days in a colorful cotton hammock in the summer breeze. There was something incredibly fitting about reading it in such a enclosed little space, as the novel itself kept drawing inward. I suspect I'll never think of this book without envisioning the hammock.
Written by Mexican novelist Álvaro Enrigue and translated into English by Natasha Wimmer, You Dreamed of Empires marked a first for me, as I realized (a bit embarrassingly) that I'd never previously read a novel by a Mexican author.
While I can't say I've ever been deeply immersed in the history of the Mexicas during the ancient Aztec Empire, the curiosity has certainly been there. I attended a lecture on the symbolism of sculptural motifs of Tenochtitlan architecture a few years back, and ever since then, my interest has only grown.
But I went into this book completely blind.
The novel opens at a dinner table. Hernán Cortés, with his fellow conquistadors and enlsaved translators, sits uncomfortably amongst Aztec Colhua priests (still carrying the metallic tang of sacrificial blood) and the empress of Tenochtitlan herself, Princess Atotoxtl.
What follows is an intriguing combination of unease and the faultiness of communication.
It’s . . . a bit tense.
Linguistics plays an essential role throughout the novel, presenting translation as something far more complex than a mere attempt to communicate what is uttered.
Translation becomes negotiation. Self-preservation. Performance. A tool to be weaponized. A form of power that quietly shapes the outcome of the entire narrative.
Every conversation between Cortés and the Colhua passes through multiple tongues, multiple loyalties, and multiple agendas. Meanings are intentionally omitted, softened, reshaped, and occasionally reinvented, creating misunderstandings and widening the distance between cultures.
The novel shifts between a full cast of characters on either side of this crucial historical encounter, as the Spaniards venture deeper into Tenochtitlan and the Colhua quietly question the decision to allow them through the gates in the first place.
One of the things I admired most about You Dreamed of Empires was its structure.
The narrative steadily tightens, concentrating its focus with remarkable precision and pacing. It begins in the best possible way, with an unhurried stretch of time, before gradually funneling the reader toward its climax.
Chapters become shorter. Shifts in perspective accelerate. The rhythm of the book quickens.
The structure reminds me of an Aztec temple. Broad at its foundation, increasingly narrow as it rises, drawing everyone toward the summit.
Whether intentional or not, the novel's architecture beautifully echoes the civilization at the center of its narrative.
Equally impressive is Enrigue's gift for characterization.
Despite the novel's sizable cast, every perspective feels nuanced and fully lived. No one exists simply to represent a culture or ideology as a whole. Instead, each character carries something uniquely their own: a lifetime of experiences, the burden of their role, gender, beliefs, fears, loyalties, desires, and ambivalences. Enrigue portrays his characters with an admirable complexity.
The novel's commentary on colonialism is nuanced, inviting readers to reconsider how acts of violence are framed by history. Colhua ritual sacrifice was public and ceremonial, making it impossible to ignore and easy for the Spaniards, and later generations, to condemn as the epitome of barbarism. Spanish colonial violence, by contrast, often arrived cloaked in the narratives of religion and diplomacy, its brutality easier to overlook and dismiss by historians.
The novel asks us to consider why certain forms of violence come to define an entire civilization, while others quietly recede into the background of history, obscured and eventually forgotten.
Enrigue's alternate history of Tenochtitlan is anything but another attempt to archaeologically reconstruct a long-lost empire. It feels alive. It has a pulse. Its canals, temples, neighborhoods, gardens, festivities, ceremonies, and quiet political undercurrents conjure a city that feels simultaneously magnificent, intimate, and precariously balanced.
I'm intentionally saying very little about the plot, and the unique narrative devices Enrigue employs in the latter half of the novel, because the experience of not knowing is one of this book's greatest gifts. I wouldn't want to take that away from anyone else.
And so, for now, I'll simply finish with this:
GO READ THIS BOOK.