The Ghost in Love (5 page)

The angel smiled and wiggled his eyebrows at Ling. He turned around to face the complainer, who was sitting two rows back. “But the film hasn't begun yet,” he said in a sociable voice.

The complainer slapped his armrest once with an open hand. “Well, I happen to enjoy watching the credits without people yakking
around me.
Capisch?
I didn't pay money to listen to
you
two discuss. Okay?”

Hearing the belligerent tone, Ling was certain that the angel was about to turn this man into a sand flea or a hippo turd.

Instead the angel said, “Okay. You're right,” and turned back to face the screen. In a whisper out of the side of his mouth he said to the ghost, “He's got a point. We'll talk more afterwards.”

When they left the theater two hours later, it had grown dark and misty. The angel pulled out a foolish-looking wool watch cap and put it on. Then he raised the collar of his sport jacket and looked at the black sky. “What do you feel like eating? Are you in the mood for anything special?”

The ghost shrugged and shook its head. “I'm not familiar with this part of town.”

“Come on, I know a good place nearby.”

Ling looked dubiously around and found it difficult not to frown. “Isn't this a bad section of town?”

“Trust me.”

They began walking and, after some minutes of small talk, Ling could no longer hold back. “I don't understand why you want me to stay here. Gould and the girl are happy together. They're in love. It's a
bore
.”

The angel chuckled but said nothing.

Ling continued, encouraged by the other's laugh. “Do you know how dull it is to watch human beings who are in love interact with each other? Kisses and hugs and ‘I love you' twenty-three times a day. Who
cares
? I'm so bored that I'm going out of my mind.”

“Don't go out of your mind. We need you a while longer. Here we are—this is the spot. Go in here.”

The ghost was so frustrated by the subject of Ben Gould's mundane
romance that, without thinking, it touched the angel's arm as the other stood holding the restaurant door open. The angel looked at the hand on his arm a long moment and then shook his head No, don't do that. Don't touch me. Immediately, Ling knew it had gone too far and quickly withdrew its hand.

“Go on now—go inside, Ling.”

It was a pizzeria. The spicy perfume of tomato sauce, hot olive oil, herbs, and baked garlic embraced them as soon as they entered. It was a small place, basically a take-out joint with six tables thrown in as an afterthought for the rare few who actually wanted to stay and eat their food. At one of those tables Ben Gould and German Landis were eating a pizza that looked about as wide as a car tire. There were so many different toppings on it in so many different colors that it resembled a Jackson Pollock painting.

The Angel of Death pointed to a table as far away from the couple as the small floor space allowed. Even so, they were no more than ten feet apart.

The first thing Ling did after sitting down was to lean across the table and ask sotto voce, “Can they hear us?”

“Of course they can hear us. They're just over there.” The angel pointed at the couple. German saw the gesture and smiled in her affable way. The angel smiled back and said to her, “We were just admiring your pizza.”

His back to them, Ben turned and glanced over his shoulder at the two people. They looked like an academic couple. It was interesting to see them here. They must be real in-the-know foodies. Although this place was in the rough part of town, it also happened to make the best pizza anywhere. As an added bonus, they also played wonderful Motown music nonstop. In the background now the Detroit Emeralds' classic single “Feel the Need in Me” was on.

German said to the angel, “This pizza is called the
Titanic
. There's so many toppings on it that you sink after eating it.”

Ben chuckled and shook his head at the strangers to indicate his girlfriend was joking. “Is this your first time here?”

The angel nodded.

“Then, if you don't mind a recommendation, have something simple like sausage and cheese the first time. They make their own sausage here. It's a kind of chorizo but with an aftertaste of anise, and it makes all the difference. Terrific.”

“That sounds good. Thanks very much for the tip,” the angel said with a wave conveying both thanks and that the couple didn't need to continue this conversation anymore. The lovebirds could go back to their dinner and each other.

When the angel spoke to Ling again, he switched to Dari, one of the two official languages of Afghanistan. The ghost picked right up on it and they quickly became involved in an intense conversation.

German heard bits and pieces of it and pulled excitedly on Ben's sleeve. “Do you hear that? What language are they speaking?”

“I dunno. I
thought
they looked like teachers. Probably from the foreign language department at the university.”

“Yes, but what language is that? Do you know? I've never heard anything like it. Maybe they're spies.”

“Do you want me to ask them?” Ben started to get up.

German reached over and yanked him back down into his seat. “If they are spies, they'll shoot you. Forget it.” She picked up another heavy slice of pizza and slid the tip into her mouth. Watching her, Ben thought, How could I be happier? How could there be a moment in my life when I am happier than right now? He reached out and touched her elbow. German immediately sensed what he was
thinking, dropped the food back into the box, and took his hand in both of hers. “When we're finished here, let's go home and go back to bed for three days. What do you say?”

Ben nodded. “But what about Pilot? He'll need to be walked?”

“We'll switch him to autopilot and let him walk himself.”

Ling and the angel heard this and paused to stare at each other. The cook came and took their order, which was for a large pizza the way Ben had suggested and beer.

After the cook left, Ling said, “Will you tell me the truth if I ask a question?”

The angel nodded.

“Do you promise?”

The angel nodded again.

“Do you honestly not know what is going to happen to him now?”

The angel raised his right hand as if swearing to tell the truth in court. “We honestly do not.”

“Then why don't you just arrange another death for him?”

“Because we can't. I was telling you the truth before: his fate is out of our hands. Plus, we're fascinated to see what
will
happen to him now. His situation is unprecedented. Look at this.” The angel reached into his pocket and pulled out what to the normal human eye looked like a bus ticket. To Ling and the angel, however, it was a history of Benjamin Gould's entire life, second for second, right up till that moment in the pizza place. About a tenth of the way up from the bottom was a thick red line denoting the day and time Ben was supposed to have died. Below it, like an atomic clock recording every fraction of a second that passed, additional notations were registering as Gould lived and thought and dreamed.

The angel slid the ticket to the middle of the table and pointed to
the red line. “
That's
where things get interesting. The moment the virus infected our computers and our man over there was sent spinning out on his own. Fantastic. This is very exciting stuff for us. As I said, unprecedented.”

“So he's a guinea pig?”

“No, an explorer! A pioneer. Because there's absolutely nothing we can do now to affect his destiny. We can only watch. That's why we want you to be around him all the time, Ling. To keep us in the loop about what's happening and what he's thinking.”

Their food arrived. They remained silent while it was placed on the table. When the ghost made to speak again, the angel put up a finger to indicate Not yet—let's eat first.

The ghost rested its chin on its hand and looked across the room at Ben and his girlfriend.

“This pizza really is superb. You have to try some,” the angel said while pushing an errant dangle of mozzarella cheese into his mouth.

“Perfect,” Ling agreed.

The door to the restaurant opened and a bum shuffled in. About thirty-five, he wore a tattered open trench coat, filthy eight-year-old cargo pants, and a sweater the vibrant orange of fresh fruit. Around his neck hung a hand-lettered sign that said
I am hungry and my heart is broke. Can you help me?

This man looked like he had been living alone on the dark side of the moon. His nauseating smell alone was enough to send people fleeing.

Upon seeing him, the cook behind the counter yelled, “Hey, you, get the hell out of here or I'm calling the cops!”

The bum ignored the threat and shuffled over to German and Ben's table. His eyes looked like dirty coins. His skin was the color
of old books that were once wet. Reaching into one of his many bulging pockets, he took out a brown plastic spool that had once held sewing thread but was now empty. Ever so carefully he placed it on the edge of their table and then stood back, crossed his hands in front of him, and waited. The spool was clearly an offering, a gift with strings attached. I give you this and you give me what I need.

Very coolly, Ben pulled a slice of pizza from their pie and handed it up to the man.

“No, please, don't do that! Now he'll just keep coming back in here!” the cook sputtered, waving the big wooden pizza paddle up and down in his hands in protest.

The bum took the slice and studied it awhile. German watched with fascination but not a bit of discomfort or dismay. She was intrigued to see how both the tramp and her man would act this one out.

Holding the food with two hands and standing still, eyes closed now, the tramp began to eat in slow, deliberate bites. The cook was fuming with frustration behind the counter. He wanted to call the police but didn't want to make a scene. He wanted this smelly creep to leave his place. But now it looked as if the man was going to stay and eat.

Pizza slice cradled in his knobby hands, the bum moved over to the table where the other couple sat. Stopping nearby, he stared at them as he ate. Ling had trouble suppressing a smile. If this human ruin only knew from whom he was about to beg food . . .

But, to Ling's surprise, the angel said in a quiet, sweet voice, “You have to leave now, Mr. Parrish. Take your food and go.”

That
surprised the bum. On hearing his name pronounced, he squinted distrustfully. He had not been addressed that way for years. And certainly not with a “Mr.” affixed to it. The look in his eyes said
he recognized the name as something that had once belonged to him but was lost long ago like so much else in his life. He zeroed in on the bald man who was now eating again and watching him.

Perplexed, Parrish took a chomp of pizza and whined loudly through the mouthful of food, “My feet hurt and my heart is broken!” Tomato sauce oozed off his lip and down the front of his sign. He didn't notice.

“Yes, I understand, but you must leave now, Stewart. Go on, there's the door.”

Through the dun-colored, forever-swirling mental clouds of his eleven years' living-on-the-street madness, Stewart Parrish was ill at ease when anyone spoke kindly, quietly, or in multiple sentences to him. He was accustomed to a few harsh words, grunts, or most commonly a curse. The bald man's knowing his name and the tender voice disturbed him. Like so much else in Parrish's splintered life, it made no sense. Through cruel experience he had learned always to beware of things that made no sense.

Shoving the rest of the pizza into his mouth, he wiped both oily hands on his coat and then, with surprising speed and grace, whipped out a knife he carried hidden in his breast pocket. He had used it often. Back when he was in prison, Parrish had learned how to hone almost anything to a razor's edge on the concrete floor of his cell. That is what he had done with this treasure. It was the kind of ubiquitous stainless steel bread knife used in school cafeterias, public institutions, and cheap restaurants. However,
this
blade was now sharp enough to cut the air in half.

God creates mankind, but man creates his own individual madness. Because it is so varied and multihued, different from person to person, it's often impossible for angels or ghosts or any being from
the other side to keep track of or decipher. More simply put, the Angel of Death had no premonition of what was coming next.

German Landis screamed when the tramp pulled out the knife. The angel heard her scream, glanced up, and instinctively ducked just enough as Parrish stabbed him.

The cook vaulted over the counter. Swinging the wooden paddle with all of his might, he hit Parrish on the back of his head so hard that the bum collapsed as if shot.

Stunned, Ling couldn't believe what had just happened. A mortal had stabbed the Angel of Death and drawn blood? How was it possible? Groaning loudly, the angel tried both to stand and pull the knife out of his shoulder.

“Help me, Ling. Help me up.” He groaned again.

On the floor, Parrish began to stir. The cook and Ben Gould leapt on him, pinning him down as best they could. Ben yelled to German to call the police.

Ling stood and grabbed the angel under one of his arms.

“Get me out of here. Out on the street. Now.”

Luckily, Parrish began to thrash around violently, taking all of Ben's and the cook's attention and energy just to contain him. German was in the kitchen, looking wildly around for a telephone.

With Ling's assistance the angel staggered out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk. No cars were about. Looking left and right, he ordered the ghost to help him over to an alley a few feet away. Face contorted, his breathing was ragged. By the time they got there, both of them were covered with blood. If he had been mortal, the angel would already have gone into shock.