To describe this book as strange does not explain the half of it. A couple arrive at Villa Pacifica, somewhere in Latin America, where they meet other people who may or may not be there at the same time as them. What is going on? Who is the narrator? And ... how magical is this realism? You must read to the end to find out.
The man was youngish, perhaps in his mid-thirties, but his tall frame had already slumped into the softness of a prosperous middle age. He wore a heavy gold watch, Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt with an open collar - the kind of gear affluent American men wear to signal that they're outward-bound. In his earnest shorts, pulled-up socks and pristine trainers, he looked like a fat rich kid keen to join the cool kids' party. The woman was long-haired, bejewelled and tiny, with a bird's face. She looked to be in her twenties and carried a small crocodile-skin handbag. Her stick-insect figure somehow supported a pair of disproportionately large breasts in a white sleeveless top with a high polo neck. She looked like Barbie.