The recollection of Jim may have revived some residue of LSD still in Zeno’s system, for as the train slowed to pass through darkened, frequently closed station of Mornington Crescent, Zeno, who was looking out of the window, had a brief acid flash. Sitting on a bench alongside his chum from the Doors were Hendrix, Lennon and Janis Joplin. A tab of rockers, Zeno thought, and they waved as the train passed by without stopping. He waved back, but found the hallucination unnerving. One time on the road, he had been keeping a tab of Owsley’s Windowpane under his wristwatch, and found his feet melting into the ground beneath him: the acid had leeched into the skin of his arm. And though he knew there were no Merry Pranksters around these days to sew tabs of acid into his shirt collars, he was nevertheless relieved to surface into the brightness of Hampstead High Street.

He had unwittingly timed his arrival to coincide with the lull between the early caffeine-drinkers and the afternoon shoppers ready for a sugar fix. The tea-shop was quiet, empty save for a fine big girl occupying two seats on the banquette nearest the entrance. As Zeno entered, the waitress, in a neat black frock, was placing the display tray in front of her. The size of the tray—carrying some thirty samples of Louis’s handiwork—and the girl were in perfect proportion. Zeno slid into one of his favourite seats, the corner of the padded banquette farthest away from the street, where the traffic noise was muted and he could view the room and listen to the gurgling of the coffee machine in the serving galley at the back. The smell of fresh coffee mixed with that aroma peculiar to pâtisseries that bake their own wares soothed him, and he inhaled deeply. Every day was Christmas at Louis’s.

For some time now, Zeno had been working at sharpening his sense of smell. Zen would blindfold her dad and fetch him things to identify, first holding herbs and spices under his nose, then different types of tea and condiments, progressing to brass and wooden objects. They were currently working on Zeno’s collection of books, starting with books he read and sniffed regularly, like his Book of Runes and the Agenda into which he jotted countless notes. Zen was ahead of her father, and could already differentiate between tap and mineral waters. Zeno accepted her superiority with good grace. It was natural, he told his wife, for a child to be more evolved than its parents.

Zeno had planned to order only a glass of hot milk, but he felt his resolve slipping as he inhaled the seductive fumes and, when the owner’s wife came through from the kitchen and made a fuss over her male visitor, he submitted, opting for a pastry.

“You—such a long time. So nice to see you.” Warmth oozed from her.

“How are you?” Zeno asked. “You look great.”

She pulled a face. “And what about you? Always handsome—and so slim. How do you stay so slim?” she asked.