The Ghost in Love: A Novel - Softcover

Carroll, Jonathan

3.47

2,105 ratings by Goodreads

9780765323057: The Ghost in Love: A Novel

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0765323052 ISBN 13: 9780765323057

Publisher: Tor Books, 2009

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A man falls in the snow, hits his head on a stone curb and dies. A ghost that's been sent to take his soul to the Afterlife arrives just as he falls. But something strange occurs: the man doesn't die. The ghost is flabbergasted. This is unprecedented. Going immediately to its boss, the ghost asks, what should I do now? The boss says, we don't know how this happened but we're working on it. In the meantime, we want you to stay with this man and watch to see if he does anything that might help us figure out what's going on.

Unhappily, the ghost agrees. It is a ghost, not a nursemaid. The last thing it wants to do is hang around watching a human being walk through his every day. But a funny thing happens―the ghost falls truly madly deeply in love with the man's girlfriend and things get complicated. The Ghost in Love is about what happens to us when we discover that we have become the masters of our own fate. No excuses, no outside forces or gods to blame―the responsibility is all our own. It's also about love, ghosts that happen to be gourmet cooks, talking dogs, and picnicking in the rain with yourself at twenty different ages.

It's tough being a ghost on an empty stomach.

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About the Author:

Jonathan Carroll's novel The Wooden Sea was named a New York Times Notable Book of 2001. He is the author of such acclaimed novels as White Apples, The Land of Laughs, The Marriage of Sticks, and Bones of the Moon. He lives in Vienna, Austria.

O N E The ghost was in love with a woman named German Landis. Just hearing that arresting, peculiar name would have made the ghost’s heart flutter if it had had one. She was coming over in less than an hour, so it was hurrying now to make everything ready. The ghost was a very good cook, sometimes a great one. If it’d spent more time at it or had more interest in the subject, it would have been exceptional. From its large bed in a corner of the kitchen a mixed-breed, black-and-oatmeal-colored dog watched with great interest as the ghost prepared the meal. This mutt was the only reason that German Landis was coming here today. His name was Pilot, after a poem the woman loved about a Seeing Eye dog. Suddenly sensing something, the ghost stopped what it was doing and eyeballed the dog. Peevishly, it demanded "What?" Pilot shook his head. "Nothing. I was only watching you work." "Liar. That is not the only thing. I know what you were thinking: that I’m an idiot to be doing this." Embarrassed, the dog turned away and began furiously biting one of its rear paws. "Don’t do that. Look at me. You think I’m nuts, don’t you?" Pilot said nothing and kept biting his foot. "Don’t you?" "Yes, I think you’re nuts, but I also think it’s very sweet. I only wish she could see what you’re doing for her." Resigned, the ghost shrugged and sighed. "It helps when I cook. When my mind is focused, I don’t get so frustrated." "I understand." "No, you do not. How could you? You’re only a dog." The dog rolled his eyes. "Idiot." "Quadruped." They had a cordial relationship. Like Icelandic or Finnish, "Dog "is spoken by very few. Only dogs and dead people understand the language. When Pilot wanted to talk, he either had to get in a quick chat with whatever canine he happened to meet on the street when he was taken out for a walk three times a day, or he spoke with this ghost—who, by attrition, knew more about Pilot now than any dog had ever known. There aren’t that many human ghosts in the land of the living, so this one was equally happy for the dog’s company. Pilot asked, "I keep meaning to ask: Where did you get your name?" The cook purposely ignored the dog’s question and continued preparing the meal. When it needed an ingredient, it closed its eyes and held out an open hand. A moment later the thing materialized in the middle of its palm: a jungle-green lime, a small pile of red cayenne pepper, or particularly rare saffron from Sri Lanka. Pilot watched, absorbed, never tiring of this amazing feat. "What if you imagined an elephant? Would it appear in your hand too?" Dicing onions now almost faster than the eye could see, the ghost grinned. "If I had a big enough hand, yes." "And all you’d have to do to make that elephant appear is imagine it?" "Oh, no, it’s much more complicated than that. When a person dies, then they’re taught the real structure of things. Not only how they look or feel, but the essence of what they really are. Once you have that understanding, it’s easy to make things." Pilot considered this and said, "Then, why don’t you just recreate her? That way, you wouldn’t have to fret about her so much anymore. You’d have your own version of her right here." The ghost looked at the dog as if he had just farted loudly. "You’ll understand how dumb that suggestion is after you die." Fifteen blocks away, a woman was walking down the street carrying large letter "D." If you were to see this image in a magazine or television advertisement, you’d smile and think, That’s a catchy picture. The woman was pleasant looking but not memorable. Her best features were her sloe eyes, which were sexy, full of humor, and intelligent. Otherwise she had even features that fit well together, although her nose was a little small for her face. She was aware of that and often self-consciously touched her nose when she knew she was being observed. What people remembered most about her was not the nose but how very tall she was: an almost six-foot-tall woman holding a big blue letter "D." The only things she had in her pockets now were one key, a bunch of dog treats, and a small toy Formula One racing car. Her father had given her the toy fifteen years ago as a good luck charm when she left home for college. She genuinely believed it had some kind of good juju. Treasuring it, she had always kept the small object close by. But she was about to give it away to someone she both loved and disliked. Because he really needed any help he could get now to change the way his life was going. She knew he didn’t believe in "powers" or talismans, so she planned on hiding it somewhere in his apartment when he wasn’t looking. Hopefully just the toy’s aura near him would help. She wore jeans, a gray sweatshirt with St. Olaf college written in yellow letters across the chest, and scuffed brown hiking boots. The boots made her taller. Funnily enough, her height never bothered her: the nose, yes, and sometimes her name. The name and the nose, but never the height, because everyone on both sides of her family was tall. She grew up in the midst of a bunch of blond humantrees. Midwesterners, Minnesotans, they ate huge meals three times a day. The men wore size thirteen or fourteen shoes and the women’s feet weren’t much smaller. All of the children in the family had unusual names. Her parents loved to read, especially the Bible, classic German literature, and Swedish folktales, which was where they had harvested the names for their children. Her brother was Enos, she was German, and her sister was named Pernilla. As soon as it was legally possible, Enos changed his name to Guy and would answer to nothing else. He joined a punk band called Kidney Failure, all of which left his parents speechless and disheartened. German Landis was a schoolteacher who taught art to twelve and thirteen-year-olds. The letter "D" she carried now was part of an upcoming assignment for them. Because she was both genial and enthusiastic, she was a first-rate teacher. Kids liked Ms. Landis because she clearly liked them. They felt that affection the moment they entered her classroom every day. Colleagues were always commenting about how much laughter came out of German’s classroom. Her enthusiasm for the students’ creations was genuine. On one wall of her apartment was a large bulletin board covered with Polaroid photographs that she’d taken over the years of her kids’ work. She often spent evenings looking through art books. The next day she would plop one or more of these books down on the desk in front of a student and point to specific illustrations she thought they should see. Some days the class wouldn’t work at all. They would go to the city museum for a show she thought they should see. Or a film that had significance to what they were doing. Sometimes they would just sit around talking about what mattered to them. German always thought of these days as intermissions, and almost as important as the workdays. When grilled by the students about her life, German talked about growing up in cold Minnesota, her love of auto

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