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PARMr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the
tight skullpiece, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. Going the two days.
Watch him! Out he goes again. One way of getting on in the world. And
that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she must have with
him.
PARU. p: up. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding.
Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch house I bet anything. Round to Menton's
office. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a feast for the gods.
PAR He passed the Irish Times. There might be other answers lying there.
Like to answer them all. Good system for criminals. Code. At their lunch
now. Clerk with the glasses there doesn't know me. O, leave them there
to
simmer. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them. Wanted, smart
lady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. I called you naughty darling
because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the meaning.
Please tell me what perfume does your wife. Tell me who made the world.
The way they spring those questions on you. And the other one Lizzie
Twigg. My literary efforts have had the good fortune to meet with the
approval of the eminent poet A. E. (Mr Geo. Russell). No time to do her
hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry.
PARBest paper by long chalks for a small ad. Got the provinces now.
Cook and general, exc. cuisine, housemaid kept. Wanted live man for spirit
counter. Resp. girl (R. C.) wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork shop.
James Carlisle made that. Six and a half per cent dividend. Made a big
deal
on Coates's shares. Ca' canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All the toady
news. Our gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the Irish Field
now.
Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and rode out
with the Ward Union staghounds at the enlargement yesterday at Rathoath.
Uneatable fox. Pothunters too. Fear injects juices make it tender enough
for
them. Riding astride. Sit her horse like a man. Weightcarrying huntress.
No
sidesaddle or pillion for her, not for Joe. First to the meet and in at
the
death. Strong as a brood mare some of those horsey women. Swagger
around livery stables. Toss off a glass of brandy neat while you'd say
knife.
That one at the Grosvenor this morning. Up with her on the car:
wishswish. Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Think that
pugnosed driver did it out of spite. Who is this she was like? O yes! Mrs
Miriam Dandrade that sold me her old wraps and black underclothes in the
Shelbourne hotel. Divorced Spanish American. Didn't take a feather out
of
her my handling them. As if I was her clotheshorse. Saw her in the viceregal
party when Stubbs the park ranger got me in with Whelan of the Express.
Scavenging what the quality left. High tea. Mayonnaise I poured on the
plums thinking it was custard. Her ears ought to have tingled for a few
weeks after. Want to be a bull for her. Born courtesan. No nursery work
for her, thanks.
PARPoor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband. Method in his madness.
Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch in the educational dairy. Y. M. C.
A.
Eating with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the minute. And still his
muttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed to be well connected. Theodore's
cousin in Dublin Castle. One tony relative in every family. Hardy annuals
he presents her with. Saw him out at the Three Jolly Topers marching along
bareheaded and his eldest boy carrying one in a marketnet. The squallers.
Poor thing! Then having to give the breast year after year all hours of
the
night. Selfish those t.t's are. Dog in the manger. Only one lump of sugar
in
my tea, if you please.
PAR He stood at Fleet street crossing. Luncheon interval. A sixpenny at
Rowe's? Must look up that ad in the national library. An eightpenny in
the
Burton. Better. On my way.
PAR He walked on past Bolton's Westmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I
forgot to tap Tom Kernan.
PARSss. Dth, dth, dth! Three days imagine groaning on a bed with a
vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her belly swollen out. Phew!
Dreadful simply! Child's head too big: forceps. Doubled up inside her
trying to butt its way out blindly, groping for the way out. Kill me that
would. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. They ought to invent something
to stop that. Life with hard labour. Twilight sleep idea: queen Victoria
was
given that. Nine she had. A good layer. Old woman that lived in a shoe
she
had so many children. Suppose he was consumptive. Time someone thought
about it instead of gassing about the what was it the pensive bosom of
the
silver effulgence. Flapdoodle to feed fools on. They could easily have
big
establishments whole thing quite painless out of all the taxes give every
child
born five quid at compound interest up to twentyone five per cent is a
hundred shillings and five tiresome pounds multiply by twenty decimal
system encourage people to put by money save hundred and ten and a bit
twentyone years want to work it out on paper come to a tidy sum more than
you think.
PARNot stillborn of course. They are not even registered. Trouble for
nothing.
PARFunny sight two of them together, their bellies out. Molly and Mrs
Moisel. Mothers' meeting. Phthisis retires for the time being, then returns.
How flat they look all of a sudden after. Peaceful eyes. Weight off
their
mind. Old Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul. All my babies, she said. The
spoon of pap in her mouth before she fed them. O, that's nyumnyum. Got
her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son. His first bow to the public. Head
like a prize pumpkin. Snuffy Dr Murren. People knocking them up at all
hours. For God' sake, doctor. Wife in her throes. Then keep them waiting
months for their fee. To attendance on your wife. No gratitude in people.
Humane doctors, most of them.
PAR Before the huge high door of the Irish house of parliament a flock of
pigeons flew. Their little frolic after meals. Who will we do it on? I
pick the
fellow in black. Here goes. Here's good luck. Must be thrilling from the
air.
Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the trees near Goose green
playing the monkeys. Mackerel they called me.
PAR A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in
Indian file. Goosestep. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their
truncheons. After their feed with a good load of fat soup under their belts.
Policeman's lot is oft a happy one. They split up in groups and scattered,
saluting, towards their beats. Let out to graze. Best moment to attack
one in
pudding time. A punch in his dinner. A squad of others, marching
irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the station. Bound for
their
troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to receive soup.
PAR He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. They did right to
put him up over a urinal: meeting of the waters. Ought to be places for
women. Running into cakeshops. Settle my hat straight. There is not
in this
wide world a vallee. Great song of Julia Morkan's. Kept her voice up
to the
very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she?
PAR He gazed after the last broad tunic. Nasty customers to tackle. Jack
Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. If a fellow gave them trouble
being lagged they let him have it hot and heavy in the bridewell. Can't
blame them after all with the job they have especially the young hornies.
That horsepoliceman the day Joe Chamberlain was given his degree in
Trinity he got a run for his money. My word he did! His horse's hoofs
clattering after us down Abbey street. Lucky I had the presence of mind
to
dive into Manning's or I was souped. He did come a wallop, by George.
Must have cracked his skull on the cobblestones. I oughtn't to have got
myself swept along with those medicals. And the Trinity jibs in their
mortarboards. Looking for trouble. Still I got to know that young Dixon
who dressed that sting for me in the Mater and now he's in Holles street
where Mrs Purefoy. Wheels within wheels. Police whistle in my ears still.
All skedaddled. Why he fixed on me. Give me in charge. Right here it
began.
PAR —Up the Boers!
PAR—Three cheers for De Wet!
PAR—We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree.
PARSilly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out. Vinegar hill.
The Butter exchange band. Few years' time half of them magistrates and
civil servants. War comes on: into the army helterskelter: same fellows
used
to. Whether on the scaffold high.
PARNever know who you're talking to. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey
Duff in his eye. Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the
gaff
on the invincibles. Member of the corporation too. Egging raw youths on
to
get in the know all the time drawing secret service pay from the castle.
Drop
him like a hot potato. Why those plainclothes men are always courting
slaveys. Easily twig a man used to uniform. Squarepushing up against a
backdoor. Maul her a bit. Then the next thing on the menu. And who is the
gentleman does be visiting there? Was the young master saying anything?
Peeping Tom through the keyhole. Decoy duck. Hotblooded young student
fooling round her fat arms ironing.
PAR —Are those yours, Mary?
PAR —I don't wear such things ..Stop or I'll tell the missus on you. Out half
the night.
PAR —There are great times coming, Mary. Wait till you see.
PAR —Ah, gelong with your great times coming.
PARBarmaids too. Tobaccoshopgirls.
PARJames Stephens' idea was the best. He knew them. Circles of ten so
that a fellow couldn't round on more than his own ring. Sinn Fein. Back
out you get the knife. Hidden hand. Stay in. The firing squad. Turnkey's
daughter got him out of Richmond, off from Lusk. Putting up in the
Buckingham Palace hotel under their very noses. Garibaldi.
PARYou must have a certain fascination: Parnell. Arthur Griffith is a
squareheaded fellow but he has no go in him for the mob. Or gas about our
lovely land. Gammon and spinach. Dublin Bakery Company's tearoom.
Debating societies. That republicanism is the best form of government.
That the language question should take precedence of the economic
question. Have your daughters inveigling them to your house. Stuff them
up with meat and drink. Michaelmas goose. Here's a good lump of thyme
seasoning under the apron for you. Have another quart of goosegrease
before it gets too cold. Halffed enthusiasts. Penny roll and a walk with
the
band. No grace for the carver. The thought that the other chap pays best
sauce in the world. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Show us over
those apricots, meaning peaches. The not far distant day. Homerule sun
rising up in the northwest.
PAR His smile faded as he walked, a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly,
shadowing Trinity's surly front. Trams passed one another, ingoing,
outgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things go on same, day after day:
squads of police marching out, back: trams in, out. Those two loonies
mooching about. Dignam carted off. Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a bed
groaning to have a child tugged out of her. One born every second
somewhere. Other dying every second. Since I fed the birds five minutes.
Three hundred kicked the bucket. Other three hundred born, washing
the
blood off, all are washed in the blood of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.
PARCityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing away too: other
coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of pavements,
piledup bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that. Landlord never
dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets his notice to quit.
They buy the place up with gold and still they have all the gold. Swindle
in
it somewhere. Piled up in cities, worn away age after age. Pyramids in
sand.
Built on bread and onions. Slaves Chinese wall. Babylon. Big stones left.
Round towers. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt. Kerwan's
mushroom houses built of breeze. Shelter, for the night.
PARNo-one is anything.
PARThis is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate
this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.
PARProvost's house. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Well
tinned in there. Like a mortuary chapel. Wouldn't live in it if they paid
me.
Hope they have liver and bacon today. Nature abhors a vacuum.
PAR The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silverware
opposite in Walter Sexton's window by which John Howard Parnell passed,
unseeing.
PARThere he is: the brother. Image of him. Haunting face. Now that's a
coincidence. Course hundreds of times you think of a person and don't
meet him. Like a man walking in his sleep. No-one knows him. Must be a
corporation meeting today. They say he never put on the city marshal's
uniform since he got the job. Charley Kavanagh used to come out on his
high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Look at the
woebegone walk of him. Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost. I have a
pain. Great man's brother: his brother's brother. He'd look nice on the
city
charger. Drop into the D. B. C. probably for his coffee, play chess there.
His brother used men as pawns. Let them all go to pot. Afraid to pass a
remark on him. Freeze them up with that eye of his. That's the fascination:
the name. All a bit touched. Mad Fanny and his other sister Mrs Dickinson
driving about with scarlet harness. Bolt upright like surgeon M'Ardle.
Still
David Sheehy beat him for south Meath. Apply for the Chiltern Hundreds
and retire into public life. The patriot's banquet. Eating orangepeels
in the
park. Simon Dedalus said when they put him in parliament that Parnell
would come back from the grave and lead him out of the house of commons
by the arm.
PAR —Of the twoheaded octopus, one of whose heads is the head upon which
the ends of the world have forgotten to come while the other speaks with
a
Scotch accent. The tentacles ....
PARThey passed from behind Mr Bloom along the curbstone. Beard and
bicycle. Young woman.
PARAnd there he is too. Now that's really a coincidence: second time.
Coming events cast their shadows before. With the approval of the eminent
poet, Mr Geo. Russell. That might be Lizzie Twigg with him. A. E.:
what
does that mean? Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund,
Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. What was he saying? The ends of the world
with a Scotch accent. Tentacles: octopus. Something occult: symbolism.
Holding forth. She's taking it all in. Not saying a word. To aid gentleman
in literary work.
PAR His eyes followed the high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle, a
listening woman at his side. Coming from the vegetarian. Only
weggebobbles and fruit. Don't eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that
cow will pursue you through all eternity. They say it's healthier.
Windandwatery though. Tried it. Keep you on the run all day. Bad as a
bloater. Dreams all night. Why do they call that thing they gave me
nutsteak? Nutarians. Fruitarians. To give you the idea you are eating
rumpsteak. Absurd. Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you sitting by the
tap all night.
PARHer stockings are loose over her ankles. I detest that: so tasteless.
Those literary etherial people they are all. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic.
Esthetes they are. I wouldn't be surprised if it was that kind of food
you see
produces the like waves of the brain the poetical. For example one of those
policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a
line
of poetry out of him. Don't know what poetry is even. Must be in a certain
mood.
PAR He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window of
Yeates and Son, pricing the fieldglasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's
and
have a chat with young Sinclair? Wellmannered fellow. Probably at his
lunch. Must get those old glasses of mine set right. Goerz lenses six guineas.
Germans making their way everywhere. Sell on easy terms to capture trade.
Undercutting. Might chance on a pair in the railway lost property office.
Astonishing the things people leave behind them in trains and cloakrooms.
What do they be thinking about? Women too. Incredible. Last year
travelling to Ennis had to pick up that farmer's daughter's bag and hand
it
to her at Limerick junction. Unclaimed money too. There's a little watch
up
there on the roof of the bank to test those glasses by.
PAR His lids came down on the lower rims of his irides. Can't see it. If you
imagine it's there you can almost see it. Can't see it.
PAR He faced about and, standing between the awnings, held out his right
hand at arm's length towards the sun. Wanted to try that often. Yes:
completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk. Must
be the
focus where the rays cross. If I had black glasses. Interesting. There
was a
lot of talk about those sunspots when we were in Lombard street west.
Looking up from the back garden. Terrific explosions they are. There will
be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time.
PARNow that I come to think of it that ball falls at Greenwich time. It's
the clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink. Must go out there
some first Saturday of the month. If I could get an introduction to professor
Joly or learn up something about his family. That would do to: man always
feels complimented. Flattery where least expected. Nobleman proud to be
descended from some king's mistress. His foremother. Lay it on with a
trowel. Cap in hand goes through the land. Not go in and blurt out what
you know you're not to: what's parallax? Show this gentleman the door.
PARAh.
PAR His hand fell to his side again.
PARNever know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs spinning
about, crossing each other, passing. Same old dingdong always. Gas: then
solid: then world: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock,
like that pineapple rock. The moon. Must be a new moon out, she said. I
believe there is.
PAR He went on by la maison Claire.
PARWait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly
there is a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview
moon. She was humming. The young May moon she's beaming, love. He
other side of her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love.
Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes.
PARStop. Stop. If it was it was. Must.
PAR Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court.
PARWith ha quiet keep quiet relief his eyes took note this is the street here
middle of the day of Bob Doran's bottle shoulders. On his annual bend,
MCoy said. They drink in order to say or do something or cherchez la
femme. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the
rest of the year sober as a judge.
PARYes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire. Gone. Plain soda would do
him good. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran
the Queen's. Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault business with his
harvestmoon face in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from School. How
time flies, eh? Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. Drinkers,
drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath. More power,
Pat. Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off that white
hat. His parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The harp
that once did starve us all.
PARI was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was.
She twentythree. When we left Lombard street west something changed.
Could never like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back time. Like holding
water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then.
Would you? Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy?
Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library.
PAR Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Muslin
prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing
in the baking causeway. Thick feet that woman has in the white stockings.
Hope the rain mucks them up on her. Countrybred chawbacon. All the beef
to the heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks out
of
plumb.
PAR He passed, dallying, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers.
Cascades of ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A tilted urn poured from its mouth
a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. The huguenots brought that
here. Lacaus esant tara tara. Great chorus that. Taree tara.
Must be washed
in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.
PARPincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy one. Sticking them all
over the place. Needles in window curtains.
PAR He bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape: nearly gone. Not today
anyhow. Must go back for that lotion. For her birthday perhaps.
Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Nearly three months off. Then she mightn't
like it. Women won't pick up pins. Say it cuts lo.
PARGleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk
stockings.
PARUseless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all.
PARHigh voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling harnesses. All for a woman,
home and houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa. Agendath
Netaim. Wealth of the world.
PAR A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain
yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh
obscurely, he mutely craved to adore.
PARDuke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then.
PAR He turned Combridge's corner, still pursued. Jingling, hoofthuds.
Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields,
tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas,
creaking beds.
PAR —Jack, love!
PAR —Darling!
PAR —Kiss me, Reggy!
PAR —My boy!
PAR —Love!
PAR His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink
gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slush of greens. See the
animals feed.
PARMen, men, men.
PAR Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables
calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food,
their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallid suetfaced young
man
polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin. New set of
microbes. A man with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him
shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back on his plate:
halfmasticated gristle: gums: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump chop
from the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser's eyes. Bitten off
more than
he can chew. Am I like that? See ourselves as others see us. Hungry man
is
an angry man. Working tooth and jaw. Don't! O! A bone! That last pagan
king of Ireland Cormac in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty
southward of the Boyne. Wonder what he was eating. Something
galoptious. Saint Patrick converted him to Christianity. Couldn't swallow
it
all however.
PAR —Roast beef and cabbage.
PAR—One stew.
PARSmells of men. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarettesmoke,
reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale of ferment.
PAR His gorge rose.
PARCouldn't eat a morsel here. Fellow sharpening knife and fork to eat
all before him, old chap picking his tootles. Slight spasm, full, chewing
the
cud. Before and after. Grace after meals. Look on this picture then on
that.
Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. Lick it off the plate,
man! Get out of this.
PAR He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of
his nose.
PAR—Two stouts here.
PAR—One corned and cabbage.
PARThat fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if his life
depended on it. Good stroke. Give me the fidgets to look. Safer to eat
from
his three hands. Tear it limb from limb. Second nature to him. Born with
a
silver knife in his mouth. That's witty, I think. Or no. Silver means born
rich. Born with a knife. But then the allusion is lost.
PAR An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock, the head
bailiff, standing at the bar blew the foamy crown from his tankard. Well
up:
it splashed yellow near his boot. A diner, knife and fork upright, elbows
on
table, ready for a second helping stared towards the foodlift across his
stained square of newspaper. Other chap telling him something with his
mouth full. Sympathetic listener. Table talk. I munched hum un thu
Unchster Bunk un Munchday. Ha? Did you, faith?
PAR Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said:
PAR—Not here. Don't see him.
PAROut. I hate dirty eaters.
PAR He backed towards the door. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's.
Stopgap. Keep me going. Had a good breakfast.
PAR —Roast and mashed here.
PAR—Pint of stout.
PAREvery fellow for his own, tooth and nail. Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff.
PAR He came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street.
Eat or be eaten. Kill! Kill!
PARSuppose that communal kitchen years to come perhaps. All trotting
down with porringers and tommycans to be filled. Devour contents in the
street. John Howard Parnell example the provost of Trinity every mother's
son don't talk of your provosts and provost of Trinity women and children
cabmen priests parsons fieldmarshals archbishops. From Ailesbury road,
Clyde road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor in his
gingerbread coach, old queen in a bathchair. My plate's empty. After you
with our incorporated drinkingcup. Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain.
Rub off the microbes with your handkerchief. Next chap rubs on a new
batch with his. Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all. Have rows
all the same. All for number one. Children fighting for the scrapings of
the
pot. Want a souppot as big as the Phoenix park. Harpooning flitches and
hindquarters out of it. Hate people all round you. City Arms hotel table
d'hte she called it. Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose thoughts
you're chewing. Then who'd wash up all the plates and forks? Might be all
feeding on tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.
PARAfter all there's a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from
the
earth garlic of course it stinks after Italian organgrinders crisp of onions
mushrooms truffles. Pain to the animal too. Pluck and draw fowl.
Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split
their skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh. Staggering bob. Bubble
and squeak. Butchers' buckets wobbly lights. Give us that brisket off the
hook. Plup. Rawhead and bloody bones. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from
their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust.
Top and lashers going out. Don't maul them pieces, young one.
PARHot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always needed.
Insidious. Lick it up smokinghot, thick sugary. Famished ghosts.
PARAh, I'm hungry.
PAR He entered Davy Byrne's. Moral pub. He doesn't chat. Stands a
drink now and then. But in leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for me
once.
PARWhat will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now.
Shandygaff?
PAR —Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook.
PAR—Hello, Flynn.
PAR—How's things?
PAR—Tiptop ... Let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and ... let me see.
PARSardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich?
Ham and his descendants musterred and bred there. Potted meats. What is
home without Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad!
Under the obituary notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree. Dignam's
potted meat. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too
salty. Like pickled pork. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour.
Ought to be tough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch the effect.
There was a right royal old nigger. Who ate or something the somethings
of
the reverend Mr MacTrigger. With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what
concoction. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle
find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. Hygiene that was
what
they call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and war
depend on some fellow's digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and geese.
Slaughter of innocent52-s. Eat drink and be merry. Then casual wards full
after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself. Mity cheese.
PAR —Have you a cheese sandwich?
PAR—Yes, sir.
PARLike a few olives too if they had them. Italian I prefer. Good glass of
burgundy take away that. Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber, Tom
Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil. Milly served me that
cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish onion. God made food,
the
devil the cooks. Devilled crab.
PAR —Wife well?
PAR—Quite well, thanks .... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you?
PAR—Yes, sir.
PARNosey Flynn sipped his grog.
PAR—Doing any singing those times?
PARLook at his mouth. Could whistle in his own ear. Flap ears to match.
Music. Knows as much about it as my coachman. Still better tell him. Does
no harm. Free ad.
PAR —She's engaged for a big tour end of this month. You may have heard
perhaps.
PAR—No. O, that's the style. Who's getting it up?
PARThe curate served.
PAR—How much is that?
PAR—Seven d, sir.... Thank you, sir.
PARMr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. Mr MacTrigger. Easier
than the dreamy creamy stuff. His five hundred wives. Had the time of
their
lives.
PAR —Mustard, sir?
PAR—Thank you.
PARHe studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. Their lives. I
have it.
It grew bigger and bigger and bigger.
PAR —Getting it up? he said. Well, it's like a company idea, you see. Part
shares
and part profits.
PAR—Ay, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand in his pocket
to
scratch his groin. Who is this was telling me? Isn't Blazes Boylan mixed
up
in it?
PARA warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom's heart.
He raised his eyes and met the stare of a bilious clock. Two. Pub clock
five
minutes fast. Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet.
PAR His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more
longly, longingly.
PARWine.
PAR He smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to
speed it, set his wineglass delicately down.
PAR—Yes, he said. He's the organiser in point of fact.
PARNo fear: no brains.
PAR Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good square meal.
PAR —He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, over that
boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the Portobello
barracks. By God, he had the little kipper down in the county Carlow he
was telling me ...
PARHope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it
up.
PAR —For near a month, man, before it came off. Sucking duck eggs by God till
further orders. Keep him off the boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is a hairy
chap.
PARDavy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched
shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin. Herring's
blush.
Whose smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete. Too much
fat on the parsnips.
PAR —And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you give
us a good one for the Gold cup?
PAR—I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on
a
horse.
PAR—You're right there, Nosey Flynn said.
PARMr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of
disgust pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese. Sips of his
wine
soothed his palate. Not logwood that. Tastes fuller this weather with the
chill off.
PARNice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed.
Like the way it curves there.
PAR —I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined
many a man, the same horses.
PARVintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits
for consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails you lose.
PAR —True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're in the know. There's no
straight sport going now. Lenehan gets some good ones. He's giving
Sceptre today. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's, won
at
Epsom. Morny Cannon is riding him. I could have got seven to one against
Saint Amant a fortnight before.
PAR—That so? Davy Byrne said.
PARHe went towards the window and, taking up the pettycash book,
scanned its pages.
PAR—I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. That was a rare bit of
horseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her sire. She won in a thunderstorm,
Rothschild's filly, with wadding in her ears. Blue jacket and yellow cap.
Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his John O'Gaunt. He put me off it. Ay.
PARHe drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the
flutes.
PAR—Ay, he said, sighing.
PARMr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his sigh. Nosey
numbskull. Will I tell him that horse Lenehan? He knows already. Better
let
him forget. Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down
again. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman. Still they might like. Prickly
beards they like. Dogs' cold noses. Old Mrs Riordan with the rumbling
stomach's Skye terrier in the City Arms hotel. Molly fondling him in her
lap. O, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!
PAR Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment
mawkish cheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty.
Bath
of course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about six o'clock I can.
Six.
Six. Time will be gone then. She.
PAR Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so off
colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters'
claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of shells, periwinkles
with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the French eat, out of
the sea
with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing in a thousand years. If you
didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth. Poisonous berries.
Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good. Gaudy colour warns you
off. One fellow told another and so on. Try it on the dog first. Led on
by the
smell or the look. Tempting fruit. Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves
for instance. Need artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what
about
oysters. Unsightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open
them
too. Who found them out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red
bank oysters. Effect on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this
morning. Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed
no
June has no ar no oysters. But there are people like things high. Tainted
game. Jugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years
old, blue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless
might mix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That archduke Leopold was
it
no yes or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs? Or who was it used to eat
the scruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch in town. Of course aristocrats,
then the others copy to be in the fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour.
Raw
pastry I like myself. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in the
sea to
keep up the price. Cheap no-one would buy. Caviare. Do the grand. Hock
in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom pearls. The
elite. Creme de la creme. They want special dishes to pretend they're.
Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the flesh. Know
me
come eat with me. Royal sturgeon high sheriff, Coffey, the butcher, right
to
venisons of the forest from his ex. Send him back the half of a cow. Spread
I saw down in the Master of the Rolls' kitchen area. Whitehatted chef like
a
rabbi. Combustible duck. Curly cabbage a la duchesse de Parme. Just
as
well to write it on the bill of fare so you can know what you've eaten.
Too
many drugs spoil the broth. I know it myself. Dosing it with Edwards'
desiccated soup. Geese stuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive. Do
ptake some ptarmigan. Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips,
evening dress, halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted
lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot
name I expect that. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I remember. Du
de la
French. Still it's the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore
street
ripped the guts out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills
can't write his name on a cheque think he was painting the landscape with
his mouth twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a kish of brogues,
worth fifty thousand pounds.
PAR Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.
PARGlowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the
winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch
telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden
under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky.
The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen
towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried
cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub
my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with
ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn
away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum.
Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish
pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy.
Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft warm sticky gumjelly lips.
Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still.
A
goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking
surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed
warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched
neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat
nipples
upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she
tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.
PARMe. And me now.
PAR Stuck, the flies buzzed.
PARHis downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the oaken slab.
Beauty: it curves: curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno:
curves the world admires. Can see them library museum standing in the
round hall, naked goddesses. Aids to digestion. They don't care what man
looks. All to see. Never speaking. I mean to say to fellows like Flynn.
Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Mortal!
Put you in your proper place. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods golden
dishes, all ambrosial. Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton,
carrots and turnips, bottle of Allsop. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity:
gods' food. Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely.
And we stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung,
earth, food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. They have no.
Never
looked. I'll look today. Keeper won't see. Bend down let something drop.
See if she.
PAR Dribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to do
there to do. A man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and walked,
to
men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a
youth enjoyed her, to the yard.
PAR When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his
book:
PAR—What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line?
PAR—He's out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for the
Freeman.
PAR—I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble?
PAR—Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why?
PAR—I noticed he was in mourning.
PAR—Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all at
home. You're right, by God. So he was.
PAR—I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely, if I see a
gentleman is in trouble that way. It only brings it up fresh in their minds.
PAR—It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before
yesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's
wife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home
to
his better half. She's well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast.
PAR—And is he doing for the Freeman? Davy Byrne said.
PARNosey Flynn pursed his lips.
PAR—-He doesn't buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon of
that.
PAR—How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book.
PARNosey Flynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He
winked.
PAR—He's in the craft, he said.
PAR—Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.
PAR—Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Ancient free and accepted order. He's
an excellent brother. Light, life and love, by God. They give him a leg
up. I
was told that by a — well, I won't say who.
PAR—Is that a fact?
PAR—O, it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said. They stick to you when you're
down. I know a fellow was trying to get into it. But they're as close as
damn
it. By God they did right to keep the women out of it.
PARDavy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one:
PAR—Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!
PAR—There was one woman, Nosey Flynn said, hid herself in a clock to find
out what they do be doing. But be damned but they smelt her out and swore
her in on the spot a master mason. That was one of the saint Legers of
Doneraile.
PARDavy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes:
PAR—And is that a fact? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw him in here and
I
never once saw him - you know, over the line.
PAR—God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Slips
off when the fun gets too hot. Didn't you see him look at his watch? Ah,
you weren't there. If you ask him to have a drink first thing he does he
outs
with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe. Declare to God he does.
PAR—There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He's a safe man, I'd say.
PAR—He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He's been known
to
put his hand down too to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O, Bloom
has
his good points. But there's one thing he'll never do.
PARHis hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog.
PAR—I know, Davy Byrne said.
PAR—Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said.
PARPaddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed
frowning, a plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.
PAR—Day, Mr Byrne.
PAR—Day, gentlemen.
PARThey paused at the counter.
PAR—Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked.
PAR—I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered.
PAR—Well, what'll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.
PAR—I'll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said.
PAR—How much? Paddy Leonard cried.
Since when, for God' sake? What's
yours, Tom?
PAR—How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.
PARFor answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and
hiccupped.
PAR—Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.
PAR—Certainly, sir.
PARPaddy Leonard eyed his alemates.
PAR—Lord love a duck, he said. Look at what I'm standing drinks to! Cold
water and gingerpop! Two fellows that would suck whisky off a sore leg.
He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold cup. A dead snip.
PAR—Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.
PARTom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set
before him.
PAR—That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking.
PAR—Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said.
PARTom Rochford nodded and drank.
PAR—Is it Zinfandel?
PAR—Say nothing! Bantam Lyons winked. I'm going to plunge five bob on my
own.
PAR—Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard
said. Who gave it to you?
PARMr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting.
PAR—So long! Nosey Flynn said.
PARThe others turned.
PAR—That's the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered.
PAR—Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll take two
of
your small Jamesons after that and a ....
PAR—Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.
PAR—Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the baby.
PARMr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his tongue brushing his
teeth smooth. Something green it would have to be: spinach, say. Then with
those Rntgen rays searchlight you could.
PAR At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the
cobblestones and lapped it with new zest. Surfeit. Returned with thanks
having fully digested the contents. First sweet then savoury. Mr Bloom
coasted warily. Ruminants. His second course. Their upper jaw they move.
Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything with that invention of his?
Wasting time explaining it to Flynn's mouth. Lean people long mouths.
Ought to be a hall or a place where inventors could go in and invent free.
Course then you'd have all the cranks pestering.
PAR He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the bars:
PARFeel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some
chap in the blues. Dutch courage. That Kilkenny People in the national
library now I must.
PAR Bare clean closestools waiting in the window of William Miller,
plumber, turned back his thoughts. They could: and watch it all the way
down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of the ribs years after, tour round
the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils
of
intestines like pipes. But the poor buffer would have to stand all the
time
with his insides entrails on show. Science.
PAR —A cenar teco.
PARWhat does that teco mean? Tonight perhaps.
PARDoesn't go properly.
PARKeyes: two months if I get Nannetti to. That'll be two pounds ten
about two pounds eight. Three Hynes owes me. Two eleven. Prescott's
dyeworks van over there. If I get Billy Prescott's ad: two fifteen. Five
guineas about. On the pig's back.
PARCould buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new
garters.
PARToday. Today. Not think.
PARTour the south then. What about English wateringplaces? Brighton,
Margate. Piers by moonlight. Her voice floating out. Those lovely seaside
girls. Against John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought,
gnawing a crusted knuckle. Handy man wants job. Small wages. Will eat
anything.
PAR Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts
and passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. Why I left the
church of Rome. Birds' nest women run him. They say they used to give
pauper children soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato
blight. Society over the way papa went to for the conversion of poor jews.
Same bait. Why we left the church of Rome.
PAR A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane.
No tram in sight. Wants to cross.
PAR —Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.
PARThe blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He
moved his head uncertainly.
PAR—You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite.
Do you want to cross? There's nothing in the way.
PARThe cane moved out trembling to the left. Mr Bloom's eye followed its
line and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. Where I
saw his brillantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping. Driver in John
Long's. Slaking his drouth.
PAR —There's a van there, Mr Bloom said, but it's not moving. I'll see you
across. Do you want to go to Molesworth street?
PAR—Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street.
PAR—Come, Mr Bloom said.
PARHe touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to
guide it forward.
PARSay something to him. Better not do the condescending. They mistrust
what you tell them. Pass a common remark.
PAR —The rain kept off.
PARNo answer.
PARStains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I suppose. Tastes all different
for
him. Have to be spoonfed first. Like a child's hand, his hand. Like Milly's
was. Sensitive. Sizing me up I daresay from my hand. Wonder if he has a
name. Van. Keep his cane clear of the horse's legs: tired drudge get his
doze. That's right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front of a horse.
PAR —Thanks, sir.
PARKnows I'm a man. Voice.
PAR —Right now? First turn to the left.
PARThe blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way,
drawing his cane back, feeling again.
PARMr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone
tweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he know that van was there?
Must have felt it. See things in their forehead perhaps: kind of sense
of
volume. Weight or size of it, something blacker than the dark. Wonder
would he feel it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer idea of Dublin
he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he walk in a
beeline if he hadn't that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow going
in to
be a priest.
PARPenrose! That was that chap's name.
PARLook at all the things they can learn to do. Read with their fingers.
Tune pianos. Or we are surprised they have any brains. Why we think a
deformed person or a hunchback clever if he says something we might say.
Of course the other senses are more. Embroider. Plait baskets. People
ought to help. Workbasket I could buy for Molly's birthday. Hates sewing.
Might take an objection. Dark men they call them.
PARSense of smell must be stronger too. Smells on all sides, bunched
together. Each street different smell. Each person too. Then the spring,
the
summer: smells. Tastes? They say you can't taste wines with your eyes shut
or a cold in the head. Also smoke in the dark they say get no pleasure.
PARAnd with a woman, for instance. More shameless not seeing. That girl
passing the Stewart institution, head in the air. Look at me. I have them
all
on. Must be strange not to see her. Kind of a form in his mind's eye. The
voice, temperatures: when he touches her with his fingers must almost see
the lines, the curves. His hands on her hair, for instance. Say it was
black,
for instance. Good. We call it black. Then passing over her white skin.
Different feel perhaps. Feeling of white.
PARPostoffice. Must answer. Fag today. Send her a postal order two
shillings, half a crown. Accept my little present. Stationer's just here
too.
Wait. Think over it.
PAR With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above
his ears. Again. Fibres of fine fine straw. Then gently his finger felt
the skin
of his right cheek. Downy hair there too. Not smooth enough. The belly
is
the smoothest. No-one about. There he goes into Frederick street. Perhaps
to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Might be settling my braces.
PAR Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand between his
waistcoat and trousers and, pulling aside his shirt gently, felt a slack
fold of
his belly. But I know it's whitey yellow. Want to try in the dark to see.
PAR He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to.
PARPoor fellow! Quite a boy. Terrible. Really terrible. What dreams
would he have, not seeing? Life a dream for him. Where is the justice being
born that way? All those women and children excursion beanfeast burned
and drowned in New York. Holocaust. Karma they call that transmigration
for sins you did in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses. Dear,
dear, dear. Pity, of course: but somehow you can't cotton on to them
someway.
PARSir Frederick Falkiner going into the freemasons' hall. Solemn as
Troy. After his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace. Old legal cronies cracking
a
magnum. Tales of the bench and assizes and annals of the bluecoat school.
I
sentenced him to ten years. I suppose he'd turn up his nose at that
stuff I
drank. Vintage wine for them, the year marked on a dusty bottle. Has his
own ideas of justice in the recorder's court. Wellmeaning old man. Police
chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime.
Sends them to the rightabout. The devil on moneylenders. Gave Reuben J
a
great strawcalling. Now he's really what they call a dirty jew. Power those
judges have. Crusty old topers in wigs. Bear with a sore paw. And may the
Lord have mercy on your soul.
PARHello, placard. Mirus bazaar. His Excellency the lord lieutenant.
Sixteenth. Today it is. In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital. The Messiah
was first given for that. Yes. Handel. What about going out there:
Ballsbridge. Drop in on Keyes. No use sticking to him like a leech. Wear
out my welcome. Sure to know someone on the gate.
PAR Mr Bloom came to Kildare street. First I must. Library.
PAR Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is.
PAR His heart quopped softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He
swerved to the right.
PARIs it? Almost certain. Won't look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too
heady. Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Get on.
PAR Making for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes.
Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. Not following me?
PARDidn't see me perhaps. Light in his eyes.
PAR The flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold
statues: quiet there. Safe in a minute.
PARNo. Didn't see me. After two. Just at the gate.
PARMy heart!
PAR His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Sir
Thomas Deane was the Greek architecture.
PARLook for something I.
PAR His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took out, read unfolded
Agendath Netaim. Where did I?
PARBusy looking.
PAR He thrust back quick Agendath.
PARAfternoon she said.
PARI am looking for that. Yes, that. Try all pockets. Handker. Freeman.
Where did I? Ah, yes. Trousers. Potato. Purse. Where?
PARHurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart.
PAR His hand looking for the where did I put found in his hip pocket soap
lotion have to call tepid paper stuck. Ah soap there I yes. Gate.
PARSafe!
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