Los nombres de mi padre

How did the idea for this book come about?
It came from the idea of a character (Camilo) who undertakes an investigation into a friend of his parents who disappeared many years ago (Miguel Carnero). It also arose from a curiosity about reconstructing the history of the original Ciudad Satélite project, north of Mexico City. And in a certain sense it also came from the fact that my father was dying in Veracruz when I began writing it, and I had to move to New York because of a fellowship.

What did you discover in the process of writing it that you didn't imagine at the beginning?
I discovered that at least 3,500 houses in Ciudad Satélite, Fuentes de Satélite, and Cuautitlán Izcalli, in the State of Mexico, were built by a former Nazi who had also constructed underground tunnels, factories, and a crematorium for the Third Reich during World War II.

What parts had to be left out for the book to end up as it is?
I did a lot of research for nine months at the New York Public Librarywith a fellowship from that institution. For a while, I took many notes on J. Posadas, a former Argentine Trotskyist who believed that aliens would arrive to help us reach the workers’ paradise. In the end I didn’t use any of that, although I read all of his speeches.

What conversations, readings, images, or sounds came into play during the writing of this book?
I read quite a bit about the history of utopian cities, from Plato to Niemeyer. I loved the projects of a man named Buckminster Fuller, who imagined a floating city contained within a geodesic dome that would travel across the entire world propelled by hot air—Cloud 9. That image stayed with me even though it isn’t in the book. Also the conversations I had with fellows at the Cullman Center at the NYPL, and with some of the librarians there. Sometimes I would go to the library’s map room and spend a while looking at old maps of Mexico City as a source of inspiration. As for sounds: the summer I arrived in New York, Un verano sin ti, by Bad Bunny, was playing everywhere, so that’s a little bit in there. Also the protest songs of León Chávez Teixeiro.

Is there an emotion or question that runs through it from beginning to end?
One emotion would be grief, or anticipatory grief: the certainty of being about to lose a father or a mother and not knowing what to do with that. 

Was there a moment when you felt the book changed direction?
There were several. I rewrote the whole thing a couple of times, changing the narrative voice. An important shift came when I decided on the ending, which is quite different from the endings of my previous books.

How did your way of reading or watching change after you finished it?
It changed the way I walk through cities. Now I take ritual walks with much more intention as part of my creative process. I think it also led me to read more theory again: I’m currently reading a lot of French literary theory and things related to philosophy and psychoanalysis that I hadn’t revisited in a long time.

Which authors have inspired you lately and what do you find in their writing style?
I really liked The Anthropologistsby Aysegül Savas, especially for the way it narrates relationships of love and friendship in a migratory context. I’m very absorbed in Ricardo Piglia, as happens to me from time to time, because of his way of reinventing the detective genre using criticism and the essay. And my partner, the writer Catherine Lacey, inspires me a lot for the honesty and passion she puts into her writing.

What is your favorite restaurant and what do you recommend we order?
At the Sunday street market on Obrero Mundial there’s a stand that sells tlacoyos and quesadillas—the one closest to Amores. The bean tlacoyos from that stand are one of my reasons to keep going. If you arrive early, they can add quelites.