History is usually written by the winners, or at least by people who weren't high on psychedelic mushrooms at the time. Álvaro Enrigue doesn't care much for that tradition. In his latest novel, You Dreamed of Empires, he takes the 1519 meeting between Hernán Cortés and Moctezuma II and turns it into a fever dream. It’s weird. It’s loud. Honestly, it’s probably the most honest way to describe a collision of two worlds that couldn't possibly understand each other.
You’ve likely heard the standard textbook version. Cortés arrives, Moctezuma hesitates, and an empire falls. Enrigue looks at that narrative and basically says, "What if we just... didn't do that?" Instead, he gives us a single, hallucinatory day in Tenochtitlan. It’s a city of canals, floating gardens, and a dizzying array of sensory overloads. This isn't a dry historical recount; it’s a punk-rock reimagining of the apocalypse.
The Tenochtitlan You Weren't Taught in School
Tenochtitlan in You Dreamed of Empires isn't a ruin or a museum piece. It’s a megalopolis. Enrigue spends a lot of time—maybe more than some readers want, but exactly as much as the story needs—describing the sheer scale of the place. The smell of the water. The sound of thousands of people moving through markets. The specific, agonizing detail of the fashion.
He introduces us to Jazmín, a character who serves as a sort of frantic fixer for Moctezuma. Through his eyes, we see the Mexica empire not as a doomed civilization waiting for a savior or a conqueror, but as a complex, bureaucratic, and highly caffeinated society. The book basically functions as a time machine that’s been calibrated slightly wrong, and that’s where the magic is. You feel the humidity. You feel the political tension. You feel the confusion of the Spanish conquistadors, who are portrayed not as legendary heroes or even singular villains, but as smelly, confused men who are way out of their depth.
Why You Dreamed of Empires Flips the Script on Cortés
We need to talk about Hernán Cortés. In this book, he isn't the tactical genius from your AP World History syllabus. He’s a bit of a mess. Enrigue paints the Spanish contingent as a group of desperate, raggedy outsiders who are genuinely baffled by the cleanliness and sophistication of the Mexica.
There’s a specific scene involving the Spanish horses—beasts the locals have never seen—that highlights the absurdity of the encounter. To the Mexica, these men are a biological curiosity, perhaps a threat, but mostly a nuisance that needs to be managed. This shift in perspective is vital. It strips away the inevitability of the conquest. For a few hundred pages, you actually believe things might go differently.
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The dialogue is snappy. It’s modern. Enrigue uses contemporary slang and a casual tone that makes the 16th century feel like last Tuesday. This might annoy purists, but it’s a brilliant move. By removing the "thee" and "thou" starchiness of historical fiction, he makes the stakes feel immediate. When Moctezuma speaks, he doesn't sound like a tragic statue; he sounds like a powerful CEO who might be having a nervous breakdown.
The Psychedelic Heart of the Narrative
Let’s get into the weeds—literally. This is a book about drugs. Or, more accurately, about how different cultures use substances to perceive reality. The Mexica are portrayed as masters of the "sacred plants." Much of the plot is fueled by the consumption of various fungi and cactus extracts.
This isn't just for shock value. Enrigue uses these altered states to blur the lines between what is happening and what could happen. There’s a scene where the characters are essentially tripping through time and space, looking at the future of Mexico while standing in its past. It’s disorienting. It’s meant to be.
- The Spanish bring wine and a thirst for gold.
- The Mexica offer cacao and a complex spiritual geometry.
- The clash isn't just about steel versus obsidian; it's about two different ways of being "under the influence."
Honestly, the way Enrigue handles the "dream" aspect of the title is masterful. You’re never quite sure if the characters are awake or if the entire meeting is a collective hallucination. This ambiguity allows him to play with the ending in a way that feels earned rather than gimmicky.
A Language That Bites
Alvaro Enrigue is a stylist. There’s no other way to put it. Translated with incredible sharp-wittedness by Natasha Wimmer—who also handled Roberto Bolaño’s 2666—the prose in You Dreamed of Empires is jagged and beautiful.
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One moment you’re reading a lush description of a tropical bird, and the next, a character is dropping a vulgarity that snaps you back to the present. It’s a wild ride. The sentences vary from short, punchy observations to long, winding descriptions of courtly etiquette that make your head spin. It’s intentional. It mimics the sensory overload of the city itself.
The book also tackles the linguistic barrier head-on. Malintzin (La Malinche) is there, of course, acting as the bridge between Spanish, Nahuatl, and Mayan. But even with a translator, no one is really communicating. They are all just projecting their own desires and fears onto each other. It’s a comedy of errors that ends in blood.
What Most Reviews Get Wrong About the Ending
I won't spoil the ending here, but I will say this: it’s polarizing. Some critics have called it a "cop-out," but they’re missing the point. Enrigue isn't writing a Wikipedia entry. He’s writing a counter-history.
The ending of You Dreamed of Empires is an act of literary rebellion. It’s a way of saying that the past isn't fixed. By imagining a different outcome, even in a fictional space, we challenge the narrative that the destruction of Tenochtitlan was "natural" or "inevitable." It’s an exercise in sovereignty. It’s about giving the Mexica their agency back, even if it’s only on the page.
The Power of "What If?"
If you go into this expecting a traditional historical novel, you’ll be frustrated. If you go in expecting a surrealist exploration of power, colonial trauma, and the sheer weirdness of human contact, you’ll love it.
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- Don't Google the history while you read. It will only distract you from the world Enrigue is building.
- Pay attention to the food. The descriptions of Mexica cuisine are some of the best parts of the book.
- Read it fast. The pace is meant to feel like a single, frantic day.
How to Approach the Text
To get the most out of this book, you have to embrace the confusion. It’s okay if you don't know who every priest or general is. It’s okay if you lose track of the specific halls of the palace. The characters are lost, too.
Basically, the book asks us to sit in the discomfort of not knowing. It mocks the idea that we can ever truly "know" the past. It suggests that history is just a story we tell ourselves to make sense of the chaos. And in the hands of a writer like Enrigue, that story is a lot more interesting when it’s a bit messy.
Actionable Steps for Readers
If this sounds like your kind of chaos, here is how to dive in:
- Pair it with non-fiction: If you want the "real" story alongside the fiction, pick up Fifth Sun: A New History of the Aztecs by Camilla Townsend. It uses Nahuatl sources and provides a great factual bedrock that makes Enrigue's deviations even more fascinating.
- Look at maps of Tenochtitlan: Before you start, find a digital reconstruction of the city. Having a visual of the central temple complex and the causeways helps ground the more surreal passages.
- Read Enrigue's other work: If the style clicks for you, Sudden Death is his other big "historical" hit, involving a tennis match between the painter Caravaggio and the poet Quevedo using a ball made of Anne Boleyn’s hair. Yeah, he’s that kind of writer.
The book is a slim volume, but it packs more ideas into 200 pages than most 800-page epics. It’s a reminder that historical fiction doesn't have to be respectful. It can be a riot. It can be a dream. It can be a nightmare. You Dreamed of Empires is all three at once.
Next Steps for Your Reading Journey
Go to your local independent bookstore or library and grab a copy of You Dreamed of Empires. Once you've finished the final page, compare the ending to the traditional account of the "Noche Triste" to see exactly how Enrigue subverts the colonial timeline.