It was three o’clock, and the crowds had a new diversion. The bands, due to strike up at three, still sat there in lordly fashion, sounding not a note.
“La musica! La musica!” shouted the mob, with the voice of mob authority. They were the People, and the revolutions had been their revolutions, and they had won them all. The bands were their bands, present for their amusement.
But the bands were military bands, and it was the army which had won all the revolutions. So the revolutions were their revolutions, and they were present for their own glory alone.
Musica pagada toca mal tono.
Spasmodically, the insolent yelling of the mob rose and subsided. La musica! La musica! The shout became brutal and violent. Kate always remembered it. La musica! The band peacocked its nonchalance. The shouting was a great yell: the degenerate mob of Mexico City!
At length, at its own leisure, the band in grey with dark rose facings struck up: crisp, martial, smart.
“That’s fine!” said Owen. “But that’s really good! And it’s the first time I’ve heard a good band in Mexico, a band with any backbone.”
The music was smart, but it was brief. The band seemed scarcely to have started, when the piece was over. The musicians took their instruments from their mouths with a gesture of dismissal. They played just to say they’d played, making it as short as possible.
Musica pagada toca mal tono.
There was a ragged interval, then the silver band piped up. And at last it was half-past three, or more.