AMERICAN DELIRIUM

Three characters’ lives converge after their unnamed city is beset by a series of weird events.

As González’s English-language debut begins, three parallel narratives are intercut. Taxidermist Vik, a chronically ill immigrant from an invented island in the Caribbean, discovers through video surveillance that a strange woman is sneaking into his home while he’s at work. When he catches her unawares one day, she locks herself in his closet—and stays. Meanwhile, his museum colleague, Beryl, an ex-commune hippie, gathers a group of fellow senior citizens together to enact aggressive action when crazed deer start attacking people in the city. And then there is little Berenice, who, waking up one day to her mother’s sudden absence, believes she has become a “left-behind,” a child whose parents have become “dropouts,” resistance movement adherents who “were rejecting the duty of parenthood and returning the children to their rightful guardians”: the government. Bit by bit, these narratives come together as they reveal the three characters’ connections to each other and to a mysterious (fictional) plant called albaria, a hallucinogen that set their world on its current skewed path. If this sounds wacky, it is, but it’s wacky in the grim, smart way of a Coen brothers film. González, who lives in Argentina, uses absurdity to show us that there is the thinnest of lines between utopia and dystopia, all without ever naming any real-world correlates (aside from the novel’s pointed title and an even more pointed epigraph from Baudrillard about “the fiction of America”). Ultimately, this is a novel about the fictions—those myths about age, race, family, nationality, sexuality, health—that we tell ourselves. And how, as one of the characters says, “The destruction of a harmful system is an act of love.”

An uncategorizable novel that manages to be both zany and profound.