ULYSSES

BELLA

(laughing) Omelette ….

THE WHORES

(laughing) Encore! Encore!

STEPHEN

Mark me. I dreamt of a watermelon.

ZOE

Go abroad and love a foreign lady.

LYNCH

Across the world for a wife.

FLORRY

Dreams goes by contraries.

STEPHEN

(extends his arms) It was here. Street of harlots. In Serpentine avenue Beelzebub showed me her, a fubsy widow. Where’s the red carpet spread?

BLOOM

(approaching Stephen) Look ….

STEPHEN

No, I flew. My foes beneath me. And ever shall be. World without end. (he cries) Pater! Free!

BLOOM

I say, look …

STEPHEN

Break my spirit, will he? O merde alors! (he cries, his vulture talons sharpened) Holа! Hillyho!

(Simon Dedalus’ voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready.)

SIMON

That’s all right. (he swoops uncertainly through the air, wheeling, uttering cries of heartening, on strong ponderous buzzard wings) Ho, boy! Are you going to win? Hoop! Pschatt! Stable with those halfcastes. Wouldn’t let them within the bawl of an ass. Head up! Keep our flag flying! An eagle gules volant in a field argent displayed. Ulster king at arms! Haihoop! (he makes the beagle’s call, giving tongue) Bulbul! Burblblburblbl! Hai, boy!

(The fronds and spaces of the wallpaper file rapidly crosscountry. A stout fox, drawn from covert, brush pointed, having buried his grandmother, runs swift for the open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth, under the leaves. The pack of staghounds follows, nose to the ground, sniffing their quarry, beaglebaying, burblbrbling to be blooded. Ward Union huntsmen and huntswomen live with them, hot for a kill. From Six Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, grey negroes waving torches. The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and anchor players, thimbleriggers, broadsmen. Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.)

THE CROWD

Card of the races. Racing card!

Ten to one the field!

Tommy on the clay here! Tommy on the clay!

Ten to one bar one! Ten to one bar one!

Try your luck on Spinning Jenny!

Ten to one bar one!

Sell the monkey, boys! Sell the monkey!

I’ll give ten to one!

Ten to one bar one!

(A dark horse, riderless, bolts like a phantom past the winningpost, his mane moonfoaming, his eyeballs stars. The field follows, a bunch of bucking mounts. Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the duke of Westminster’s Shotover, Repulse, the duke of Beaufort’s Ceylon, prix de Paris. Dwarfs ride them, rustyarmoured, leaping, leaping in their, in their saddles. Last in a drizzle of rain on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, Cock of the North, the favourite, honey cap, green jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, gripping the reins, a hockeystick at the ready. His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet jogs along the rocky road.)

THE ORANGE LODGES

(jeering) Get down and push, mister. Last lap! You’ll be home the night!

GARRETT DEASY

(bolt upright, his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his blue eyes flashing in the prism of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop) Per vias rectas!

(A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his rearing nag a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes.)

THE GREEN LODGES

Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!

(Private Carr, Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey pass beneath the windows, singing in discord.)

STEPHEN

Hark! Our friend noise in the street.

ZOE

(holds up her hand) Stop!

PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY

Yet I’ve a sort of a

Yorkshire relish for …

ZOE

That’s me. (she claps her hands) Dance! Dance! (she runs to the pianola) Who has twopence?

BLOOM

Who’ll …?

LYNCH

(handing her coins) Here.

STEPHEN

(cracking his fingers impatiently) Quick! Quick! Where’s my augur’s rod? (he runs to the piano and takes his ashplant, beating his foot in tripudium)

ZOE

(turns the drumhandle) There.

(She drops two pennies in the slot. Gold, pink and violet lights start forth. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz. Professor Goodwin, in a bowknotted periwig, in court dress, wearing a stained Inverness cape, bent in two from incredible age, totters across the room, his hands fluttering. He sits tinily on the pianostool and lifts and beats handless sticks of arms on the keyboard, nodding with damsel’s grace, his bowknot bobbing.)

ZOE

(twirls round herself, heeltapping) Dance. Anybody