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teaches something European and difficult to understand, like the historical development of hermeneutics or Foucault. When the angel saw the ghost walking down the aisle, he waved. “Ah, there you are, Ling. Sit down. You’re just in time.”
    The ghost sat down next to the angel. After refusing an offer of the popcorn bucket, it said, “I’m extremely uncomfortable being visible to people. A man outside just came up to me and—”
    â€œI know,” the angel said indifferently, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Tough. It’s important for you to experience what it’s like to be human now and then.”
    â€œ
Why?
I’m a ghost. Knowing what it’s like to be human only clouds the issue.”
    â€œAnd that’s good! You could use some clouds in your sky. Some clouds, a little rain. Maybe even a snowstorm or two . . .”
    Ling had no idea what the Angel of Death was talking about.
    The lights in the theater began to dim.
    â€œYou are about to see one of Carole Lombard’s best films:
Mr. and Mrs. Smith
. It’s the only comedy Hitchcock ever directed.” The angel took a long drink of soda.
    â€œWho’s Hitchcock?”
    â€œHave some popcorn.”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    In the fading light, the angel turned slowly to Ling. For several moments his eyes became enormous, pinwheeling fire everywhere.
“Have some popcorn.”
    Ling dutifully took four kernels out of the bucket but only held them in the middle of its palm.
    â€œEat them.”
    The ghost put one kernel on the tip of its tongue and left it there. It was salty and buttery and full of edges.
    â€œYou don’t like popcorn?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œChew it slowly. Listen to the different ways it cracks as your teeth break it down. Taste the flavors. Feel the consistency change as you chew.”
    The ghost did as it was told but the popcorn tasted only of a bad butter substitute and far too much salt. Ling loved other human food but popcorn was gross.
    Up on the screen the movie credits had begun to roll, accompanied by a rousing soundtrack.
    The angel said, “I like black-and-white films more than color because they’re more artificial. You have to work harder to overcome your disbelief. It’s sort of like prayer.”
    â€œDo you watch a lot of movies?”
    â€œI have my favorites. Anything with Carole Lombard in it or Veronica Lake, and of course Emmanuelle Béart.”
    â€œNo men?”
    A male voice boomed from behind them, “Will you two pipe down? I’m tryin’ to watch the pitcha!”
    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 yakkingaround 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.”
    â€œCome 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