Somewhere else, I called Ghosts, by Argentinian writer César Aira, “a charming, meandering book of philosophical musings disguised as a novel.” That’s meant as a compliment. The story is nominally about the laborers, mostly Chilean immigrants, who are working on the construction of a luxury condominium high-rise in Buenos Aires. The construction site is haunted by ghosts, bawdy naked men covered in construction dust. The ghosts are invisible to the architects, designers, and project developers, as well as to the building’s wealthy future residents. They can only be seen by the workmen, who are about as visible to the project developers and future residents as the ghosts are. The Chilean foreman and his family live on the construction site as caretakers, and the ghosts take a special interest in the foreman’s thoughtful, dreamy, teenage stepdaughter Patri.
It’s a slim novel at 139 pages, and the plot itself is about enough for a short story. The rest of the book is filled with digressions, some by the omniscient narrator, some put in the thoughts of the characters. I picked up the novel expecting a regular ghost story, so at first the book seemed slow — it is slow — but after I adjusted to its reality, I enjoyed it. Aira rambles on about art, literature, architecture, how the arrangement of buildings in an African village reflect the expected modes of interaction among the villagers, homeopathy, marriage, the difference between the complacent Argentinian upper-middle-class and the immigrant Chileans…
This is a long-winded way of saying that arguing with the book while reading it seems like a perfectly natural thing to do.
What happened? Late in the book, the ghosts invite Patri to their New Year’s eve party. She has to think about it.
Invitations to a magic party with ghosts were obviously going to be very rare. There might be another chance, but for Patri that was beside the point. She was wondering how many such invitations there could be in eternity. That was a different question. Repetition in eternity was not a matter of probabilities, no matter how large the numbers. In eternity, as distinct from “in life” or “outside life,” this party was an absolutely unique occasion.
No, no, NO! I wanted to shout at the book (I was in a restaurant, so I didn’t). In all eternity, this invitation is bound to happen again.