Section 18 of 74 - Table of Contents
--Wife well?
--Quite well, thanks ... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you?
--Yes, sir.
Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.
--Doing any singing those times?
Look 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.
--She's engaged for a big tour end of this month. You may have heard
perhaps.
--No. O, that's the style. Who's getting it up?
The curate served.
--How much is that?
--Seven d., sir ... Thank you, sir.
Mr 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.
--Mustard, sir?
--Thank you.
He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. THEIR LIVES. I have it.
IT GREW BIGGER AND BIGGER AND BIGGER.
--Getting it up? he said. Well, it's like a company idea, you see. Part
shares and part profits.
--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?
A 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.
His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more longly,
longingly.
Wine.
He smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to
speed it, set his wineglass delicately down.
--Yes, he said. He's the organiser in point of fact.
No fear: no brains.
Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good square meal.
--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 ...
Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it
up.
--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.
Davy 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.
--And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you give
us a good one for the Gold cup?
--I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on a
horse.
--You're right there, Nosey Flynn said.
Mr 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.
Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed.
Like the way it curves there.
--I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined
many a man, the same horses.
Vintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits
for consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails you lose.
--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.
--That so? Davy Byrne said ...
He went towards the window and, taking up the pettycash book, scanned
its pages.
--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.
He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the flutes.
--Ay, he said, sighing.
Mr 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!
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 ...
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.
Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.
Glowing 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.
Me. And me now.
Stuck, the flies buzzed.
His 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.
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.
When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book:
--What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line?
--He's out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for the
FREEMAN.
--I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble?
--Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why?
--I noticed he was in mourning.
--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.
--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.
--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.
--And is he doing for the FREEMAN? Davy Byrne said.
Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.
---He doesn't buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon of
that.
--How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book.
Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He
winked.
--He's in the craft, he said.
---Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.
--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.
--Is that a fact?
--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.
Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one:
--Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!
--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.
Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes:
--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.
--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.
--There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He's a safe man, I'd say.
--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.
His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog.
--I know, Davy Byrne said.
--Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said.
Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed frowning, a
plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.
--Day, Mr Byrne.
--Day, gentlemen.
They paused at the counter.
--Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked.
--I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered.
--Well, what'll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.
--I'll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said.
--How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for God' sake? What's yours,
Tom?
--How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.
For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and hiccupped.
--Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.
--Certainly, sir.
Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.
--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.
--Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.
Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set before
him.
--That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking.
--Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said.
Tom Rochford nodded and drank.
--Is it Zinfandel?
--Say nothing! Bantam Lyons winked. I'm going to plunge five bob on my
own.
--Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard
said. Who gave it to you?
Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting.
--So long! Nosey Flynn said.
The others turned.
--That's the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered.
--Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll take two of
your small Jamesons after that and a ...
--Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.
--Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the baby.
Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his tongue brushing his teeth
smooth. Something green it would have to be: spinach, say. Then with
those Rontgen rays searchlight you could.
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.
He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the bars:
DON GIOVANNI, A CENAR TECO
M'INVITASTI.
Feel 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.
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.
--A CENAR TECO.
What does that TECO mean? Tonight perhaps.
DON GIOVANNI, THOU HAST ME INVITED
TO COME TO SUPPER TONIGHT,
THE RUM THE RUMDUM.
Doesn't go properly.
Keyes: 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.
Could buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new
garters.
Today. Today. Not think.
Tour 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.
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.
A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No
tram in sight. Wants to cross.
--Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.
The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He moved
his head uncertainly.
--You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite.
Do you want to cross? There's nothing in the way.
The 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.
--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?
--Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street.
--Come, Mr Bloom said.
He touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to guide
it forward.
Say something to him. Better not do the condescending. They mistrust what
you tell them. Pass a common remark.
--The rain kept off.
No answer.
Stains 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.
--Thanks, sir.
Knows I'm a man. Voice.
--Right now? First turn to the left.
The blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way, drawing his
cane back, feeling again.
Mr 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.
Penrose! That was that chap's name.
Look 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.
Sense 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.
And 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.
Postoffice. 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.
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.
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.
He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to.
Poor 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.
Sir 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.
Hello, 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.
Mr Bloom came to Kildare street. First I must. Library.
Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is.
His heart quopped softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He swerved to
the right.
Is it? Almost certain. Won't look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too heady.
Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Get on.
Making for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes.
Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. Not following me?
Didn't see me perhaps. Light in his eyes.
The flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold statues:
quiet there. Safe in a minute.
No. Didn't see me. After two. Just at the gate.
My heart!
His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Sir Thomas
Deane was the Greek architecture.
Look for something I.
His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took out, read unfolded Agendath
Netaim. Where did I?
Busy looking.
He thrust back quick Agendath.
Afternoon she said.
I am looking for that. Yes, that. Try all pockets. Handker. FREEMAN.
Where did I? Ah, yes. Trousers. Potato. Purse. Where?
Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart.
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.
Safe!
* * * * * * *
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