Up in Smoke Read Free Page A

you were respectful?
    â€œThe original tobacco variety was
Nicotiana rustica
,” he said, sticking safely to the biology of tobacco, as taught to him by his dad. Gaspar Szabo had made an excellent living as a grower because he used science to achieve high yields of top-grade product. “The original tobacco plant was harsher than the modern version and probably reserved for shamans and chieftains.”
    He explained that pre-contact, Native tobacco contained an almost poisonous concentration of nicotine and an untold number of hallucinogens. Smoking it would have been quite the trip: psychedelic visions accompanied by a rocketing heart rate, dilated pupils, and drenching sweats. Europeans found a tamer species when they landed on Bermuda, or maybe it was Bolivia — the story changed depending on what history book you read. Anyway,
Nicotiana tabacum
was less harsh on the heart and nervous system, and not hallucinogenic. But equally addictive. The Europeans quickly appropriated the ancient custom they’d stumbled on in the Americas and transformed it into a worldwide mega-industry. And governments everywhere taxed the hell out of it.
    â€œNo wonder Native shamans appeared to be possessed by spirits,” Colleen said. “With all that mind-blowing dope and the addictive power of nicotine, they must have been running round half mad a lot of the time.” She took her mug of Maxwell House and sipped it; her eyes lit with gratitude. She was no less addicted to caffeine than he was. After a moment of reflection she asked, “But how did your loon get from Ohio to Ontario?”
    â€œStolen and traded dozens of times, I guess. First between Natives, and then the Europeans got in on the act.”
    She threw him that smile of understanding he was coming to love so much.
    After those rocky years with his ex, Francine, and the following seven years of hapless dating, it was wonderful to have a gorgeous, kind, smart, stable woman who understood him so well and expressed her appreciation both inside and outside of bed. True, he found it a strain when she pestered him with questions, but if that was her major imperfection . . .
    Max, now ten, had asked a few weeks ago if he could call Colleen by a special nickname, since she was almost part of the family. Not Mum or Mummy, Max had said, because he already had a real mother who was waiting for just the right time to come for a visit. Zol had quickly changed the subject, worried they were living a dream that couldn’t possibly last. Did he possess a flaw that drove women to nastiness once they got to know him? If he could ever remember how to pray, he’d plead on his knees for things to be different this time.
    â€œCome to think of it,” she continued, “that little loon did have a couple of millennia to make the trip. It seems to have been well cared for through the ages. Extraordinary. No chips in its beak, and its tail looks perfect.”
    â€œThat’s what my history teacher said. It had been handled with the same reverence as the British Crown Jewels.”
    â€œDid you trace the strong box to its owner?”
    â€œManufactured in Sheffield, England. Mid- 1800 s. That’s all we could find out.”
    She cocked her head toward the newspaper. “What’s this legend they’re referring to? A second, almost identical pipe is out there somewhere waiting to make big things happen when the two of them are finally united?”
    The front door opened and closed with a bang. Zol heard two clunks against the floor as someone kicked off a pair of shoes. The hardwood creaked beneath the approach of stockinged feet.
    A few seconds later, Hamish Wakefield burst into the kitchen. He was soaked through and covered in bubbles.

CHAPTER 3
    At Zol’s first whiff of the bubbles, the Beatles struck up ten bars of “Hey Jude,” and he watched as Hamish’s jacket and slacks drained into puddles of industrial froth.