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Ulysses
--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!
* * * * * * *