In the afternoon I visited the steam baths at the palace, sitting in a humid cubicle filled with the scents of resinous wood. That evening, dancers from Chiapas performed a mime for us, all feathers and swirling mantles, their story symbolizing the acceptance of Christianity as the official religion of the empire by the tlatoani Tezozomoc in the seventeenth century. I sat with Richard and Xochinenen, who were flying on to Honolulu the following day. Richard was thrilled at the prospect of going surfing, his latest passion. In a quiet moment I whispered in Nahuatl to Xochinenen, ‘Will you be returning to London after Hawaii?’ ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Richard wants our son to be born in England. He’s certain it’s going to be a boy.’ I think I must have had some foreboding that a lengthy separation was imminent. ‘You will look after him, won’t you?’ She knew immediately I was referring to Richard rather than the child. He was clapping his hands to the music which accompanied the mime, completely engrossed in the performance.
