
When I began writing The Prisoner of Zone 22, I wanted to set the story in a place that doesn’t exist and never will. The planners of Guatemala City once designated a future Zone 22, but the area was eventually outside the final municipal line. There were later sayings that Zone 22 was a place of dreams, or alternately, where you go to die. I have chosen the place of dreams, a geography of the mind.

But the characteristics of Zone 22 are based in reality. Zone 3, before its decline into a Red Zone, was a lower-middle class neighborhood close to downtown where I had family once. The streets, churches and businesses of the area are models for the story, though they are slightly spruced-up to make Zone 22 more of a professional suburb where a murder would be out of place. Zone 3 also borders a ravine.
The ravine in Zone 22 plays an important role in the life of Captain Javier Ixtlan, my main character. He lived there as a child. His mother died when the earth cracked open during the earthquake of 1976. I was in Zone 3 the night of that disaster. What I saw became part of the book. A crack appeared in the shantytown down the slope in the darkness and whole families fell in. We helped the survivors as best we could. In the rest of the zone houses collapsed inward or outward: many who ran into the street for safety were betrayed by the walls behind them. There were hundreds of bodies in the morning. Hopefully the emotional impact of that experience contributes to the depth of the captain as he navigates the world as a person who lost everything.

As Captain Ixtlan investigates different aspects of the murder case, he travels through parts of Guatemala City that are real or imagined. The Parque Central of Zone 1, the Yurrita Church in Zone 4, La Ruta Maya, a pyramid-nightclub in the heart of the Zona Viva. Eadweard Muybridge photographed the Parque Central in the 19th century when Guatemala was an elegant, quiet city. The Yurrita Church, perhaps the most beautiful in the country, was built by a wealthy man after surviving a volcanic eruption in 1902—his prayers were answered. It long ago passed out of the family’s hands. And La Ruta Maya does not exist but might as well. It is a kind of homage by the wealthy elite to the genius of the people they conquered.

I walked the length of Guatemala City for years. Decades ago I came across a homeless man asleep one morning on an elevated sidewalk by Sexta Avenida. I never forgot him. Who was he? Who was his mother? Everyone has a mother. My experiences helped form the impressions of Javier Ixtlan, himself an outsider, orphan, member of the dispossessed. His travels through the city and Zone 22 seeking justice, trying to protect a woman hiding a list of secret crimes. They are crimes against people and crimes of history. Captain Ixtlan rises to the occasion as best he can. Zone 22 may not exist, but it is still a place of memory and reckoning.

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