Before the captivity narrative about a Mexican woman abducted by the Apache in the mid-1800s; before the storyline about Geronimo’s surrender; before the torrent of details about the life and peoples on the borderlands between present-day Mexico and the U.S.; there’s this first sentence:

In the beginning, things appear. Writing is a defiant gesture we’ve long since gotten used to: where there was nothing, somebody put something, and now everybody sees it. For example, the prairie.

That’s the opening of Álvaro Enrigue’s new novel, Now I Surrender. The words are spoken by Enrigue himself: He appears throughout the novel as a writer traveling on a road trip through the Southwest with his family. They’re visiting sites that tell the story of the Apache fight for survival.

That Prospero-like opening gives readers fair warning about how defiantly challenging, occasionally overblown, and, at times, magical this epic novel is going to be. In the self-conscious hallucinatory tradition of historical novelists like E.L. Doctorow and Don DeLillo, Enrigue keeps intrusively reminding us that this overpacked tale of the past is something he’s constructing, as much as resurrecting. And, like his predecessors, Enrigue subscribes to a paranoid reading of history. As a character in Libra, DeLillo’s novel about the Kennedy assassination, says: “This is what history consists of. It is the sum total of the things they aren’t telling us.”

There’s so much that “official history” hasn’t told us about “how the West was won” that Enrique here works furiously to fill in some of the silences.

The novel’s most engrossing, if brutal, storyline follows a young Mexican woman named Camila. We first see her running into the prairie after an Apache raid wipes out everyone else living on her elderly husband’s ranch. To give you a sense of how immediate and visual Enrigue’s writing can be, here’s the moment when the Apache catch up with Camila:

[S]he didn’t look back, but she clearly heard a group of horses breaking away from the herd of running cattle and swerving toward her. When the dust raised by the pounding of the horses’ hooves began to sting her eyes, she threw herself on the ground and curled into a ball, hoping to be trampled to death.

Then she was yanked up by her braids, her neck wrenched, her legs kicking, her brown underskirts a flower in the wind. …

Camila’s abduction spurs a second narrative featuring a rag-tag search party assembled under a Lieutenant Colonel of the Mexican Republic. The searchers ride far into the vast territory that was once known as Apachería. Enrigue tells us this ancient homeland of the various Apache tribes:

was taken away from us like cassette tapes or incandescent light bulbs. Where Sonora, Chihuahua, Arizona, and New Mexico meet today was an Atlantis, an in-between country. And straddling it were the Mexicans and the gringos, like two children, eyes shut, their backs to each other, while the Apaches scuttled back and forth between their legs, not sure where to go with strangers bubbling up everywhere, filling their lands.

The end game for the Apache began in March 1886 when their great leader and shaman, Geronimo, surrendered with a small band of warriors to the U.S. Army. According to the official transcript of that moment, Geronimo said, “Once I moved like the wind. Now I surrender to you and that is all.”

Enrigue’s novel, which takes its title from Geronimo’s eloquent words, loses some vitality when it focuses on the story of his surrender and afterlife as a prisoner of war and a curiosity: Geronimo appeared, for instance, at the 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis and rode in Teddy Roosevelt’s inaugural parade the year after. Given that Enrigue writes with such unsentimental admiration about Apachería, perhaps recounting the story of Geronimo’s fall felt more a writerly duty, than a desire.

Now I Surrender has been described as a revisionist or “alternative Western,” which it is, but given its scope, I think it might be more apt to call it an “expandable Western.” There’s room for everyone in this epic of conquest and eradication: Native Americans, Mexicans, gringos, formerly enslaved people, immigrants and one lone writer gamely trying to tell their stories before the curtain comes down on the whole enterprise.

There are old family photos of house parties from the ’70s that I like to stare at, of my uncles looking suave posing in a living room like they’re at the club about to take over the dance floor. Today, I’m thinking of them and of the exaggerated lapels on their leisure suits, of unbuttoned shiny shirts showing hints of a sun-kissed chest, and of a baby blue suit worn with a relaxed brown polo tucked in. As I walk through the Cosmo Plaza Food Court at 935 Santee St., where I parked my car on the roof, I pass a group of young girls eyeing the cotton candy quinceañera dresses and a pair of tourists pointing to their next destination. It’s a warm Friday afternoon in Santee Alley and I’m searching for some menswear.

“Se encuentra algo like this?” I ask store owner Pedro Ramirez of RJ Suits located on 1138 S. Santee Alley. We huddle around my phone as I show him images of Bad Bunny in the music video “NUEVAYoL” and Don Johnson in a pastel linen suit from an episode of “Miami Vice.” Ramirez looks up at his crowded inventory of electric, sequined imported ensembles and starts pulling suits down for me. Across the way, a salesperson calls out to pedestrians to come in to visit her shop. A man in a lowrider bike weaves through the crowd while another merchant blows bubbles to the delight of little kids.

Just a few weeks before, in January, federal immigration officers stood menacingly on the corner of Maple Avenue and 11th Street. No one was taken but the damage was done that day with vendors locking their doors to protect themselves. Compared to even last summer, it’s much quieter now, with fewer customers looking for bargains and crowding shoulder to shoulder. Yet the Alley persists in spite of all this. The 150 shops are a vital source of livelihood for many and an illustration of resilience. Santee Alley was born out of unconventionality with its makeshift stores designed to break retail rules. It is a place unlike any other in L.A., where customers can imagine sartorial possibilities that reflect back the uniqueness of our city’s inhabitants. Come ready to shed any rigid assumptions and play.

“This is very fancy,” Ramirez says as he shows me a soft, teal blazer covered with floral appliqués. Ramirez started selling in Santee Alley 25 years ago, when, he recalls, stores sold designer labels at cost and most merchants were Iranian not Latino. Now the alley has more of a swap meet feel, he says. I give the blazer a try.

Santee Alley, a.k.a. Los Callejones, may be nestled in the Fashion District but the place has its own DNA, unpretentious with its kaleidoscope of items to buy, from scented oils to lingerie to work uniforms. Santee came into existence in the mid-to-late 1970s for apparel businesses to sell their overstock items on the weekends. Now open 365 days, as the sign on Olympic Boulevard states, Santee Alley is our very own bazaar. Come with cash. Haggle if you want. Listen to the cumbia by young singer Estevie dedicated to the alley to get you prepped. “Barato pero me siento caro.” Yes. Cheap but leave feeling rich.

The first time I visited Santee Alley was 20 years ago when I moved to Los Angeles from the Bronx, New York. I didn’t have a sense of direction, always felt lost. Downtown was a labyrinth to me, but when I hit Santee Street and Olympic Boulevard, everything clicked into place. With its overly sensory stimulation and DIY retail spaces, Santee Alley reminded me of home. Reggaeton and banda music blared from the stores while I stocked up on the essentials: gold hoops, baseball hats and workwear to set me up in my new life. Throughout the years, Santee Alley has become a place for me to bring closer the family I left, a space where I can unabashedly experiment with my style through their selection of menswear.

When I was in high school, hip-hop was my soundtrack. We didn’t have much money, so I “shopped” in my father’s closet. I wore his Fila blue sweater with the F logo prominent and all the guys at school wanted to cop it. Meanwhile, my father was wondering why his blazers were going missing. Back then, dressing in menswear made me feel safe. The oversize blazers conjured up armor for the streets, as in, we’re outside taking care of business. I want to go back to that feeling. At Sinai Blankets on 1219-B Santee Alley, I try on a couple of Dickies shorts in a khaki color, extra stiff, while making a mental note of the Ben Davis workwear jackets displayed on the walls.

When I see Paulina López-Velázquez co-owner of Mexican restaurant Guelaguetza, she tells me she shops at the Alley for her monthly party, I Love Micheladas. She gravitates toward “super banda” outfits, shiny shirts with floral prints worn over jorts. “The stuff that I wear is for men, and I just reinvent it and reimagine it,” she says. López-Velázquez moved to L.A. from Oaxaca 30 years ago, when she was 13. “Any space that makes me feel connected or at home or makes me feel like I belong, because this is my people, I love to be there. And Santee Alley is one of those places.”

The Alley may feel like a chaotic space, but it’s about tapping in to this emotional dance to evoke the familiar. A memory is unlocked in a pair of slouchy carpenter pants and delicate stacks of golden jewelry, and the longing for home is temporarily satiated.

I’m shopping alongside a young college student who says she drove in from the Bay Area not knowing what to expect on her first visit. She admires the range of ranchero wear and tells me she’s looking for something fun to wear to go dancing later in the week. We both eye the big belt buckles. There’s also a nice selection of long-sleeved, men’s guayabera shirts, imported from Mexico, that would look great over a flowy skirt, I suggest. Nearby, two girls try on cowboy hats available in vibrant hues. In this moment, I can’t imagine a narrative where Santee Alley ceases to exist. Recent raids may try to instill fear, but this special communal space feels impervious to such weak displays. To lose it would mean to vanish a snapshot of what makes this city glorious.

Heading back toward Olympic, I enter David Apparel on 1019 Santee St. The menswear collection here is sporty with Gucci-esque matching outfits and dressy shirts emblazoned with lions. The last purchase I bought there was a tracksuit with green, red and blue stripes on the sides. Whenever I wear it I feel like Colin Farrell in the movie “The Gentlemen.” In the far corner of the store, a father with his son negotiates a price for a button-up while the song “Te Boté” by Ozuna plays loudly from a hidden speaker.

“Baby, la vida e’ un ciclo.” Bad Bunny raps his verse on the song reminding me of how life is a circle. I’m told linen suits will be coming in soon in the pastel colors I’m looking for. I pull a brown polo shirt from an overstuffed rack and press it against me. I check myself out in the mirror and wonder, would the uncles approve?

Lilliam Rivera is an award-winning author of fiction.

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