When at last Andrew returned from India, just before the beginning of Trinity Term, Vivian was touched that he came to see her even before visiting his parents. (Especially before visiting his parents, Andrew thought.) A little-known fact about the English is that their genetic material contains chlorophyll; they are transformed, if not electrified, by sunlight: After a season in India his face was no longer an ashen English pale, and his hair had grown long and shaggy. His backpack had a faint musty smell. He was wearing tie-died backpacker pants, sandals, and an icon of Ganapati the Elephant God tied around his neck with a macramé lanyard. He picked Vivian up and spun her around the room – he thought this quite a suave gesture – then told her that he had two tabs of very good acid that he’d purchased from some German chick in Goa inside his Bodleian library card, which he’d pried apart with a penknife and sealed again with Scotch tape before going through customs. It was eight in the morning and the sun had just come up. “Let’s dose,” he suggested, running his hand through that sheepdog hair. Vivian hadn’t dropped acid since she was seventeen (except for once at Swarthmore – but that was only a school dose). Spring had arrived at last, though, and so had Andrew. It seemed to her like a fine idea.
They put the microtabs under their tongues and wandered down to St. Aldates to get a cup of tea while they waited. No more than half an hour later, Vivian began to feel it. “Andy,” she said, “what is this?”
“I think it might be English Breakfast.”
“Shit, man, we’re drinking boiled leaves.”
“I’d swear this smells like English Breakfast—” Mid-sentence, he noticed it too: The ivy trellises on the tea shop’s wallpaper had been fertilized. They were snaking around the patterned damask roses and heading right for the goddamned ceiling. “Whoa,” Andrew said, “We need to get out of here.” ...
They put the microtabs under their tongues and wandered down to St. Aldates to get a cup of tea while they waited. No more than half an hour later, Vivian began to feel it. “Andy,” she said, “what is this?”
“I think it might be English Breakfast.”
“Shit, man, we’re drinking boiled leaves.”
“I’d swear this smells like English Breakfast—” Mid-sentence, he noticed it too: The ivy trellises on the tea shop’s wallpaper had been fertilized. They were snaking around the patterned damask roses and heading right for the goddamned ceiling. “Whoa,” Andrew said, “We need to get out of here.” ...
