Ulysses

with rich rolling utterance. Who’ll hang Judas Iscariot? H. Rumbold, master barber, in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner’s apron, a rope coiled over his shoulder, mounts the block. A life preserver and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in his belt. He rubs grimly his grappling hands, knobbed with knuckledusters. Rumbold To the recorder with sinister familiarity. Hanging Harry, your Majesty, the Mersey terror. Five guineas a jugular. Neck or nothing. The bells of George’s church toll slowly, loud dark iron. The Bells Heigho! Heigho! Bloom Desperately. Wait. Stop. Gulls. Good heart. I saw. Innocence. Girl in the monkeyhouse. Zoo. Lewd chimpanzees. Breathlessly. Pelvic basin. Her artless blush unmanned me. Overcome with emotion. I left the precincts. He turns to a figure in the crowd, appealing. Hynes, may I speak to you? You know me. That three shillings you can keep. If you want a little more⁠ ⁠… Hynes Coldly. You are a perfect stranger. Second Watch Points to the corner. The bomb is here. First Watch Infernal machine with a time fuse. Bloom No, no. Pig’s feet. I was at a funeral. First Watch Draws his truncheon. Liar! The beagle lifts his snout, showing the grey scorbutic face of Paddy Dignam. He has gnawed all. He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath. He grows to human size and shape. His dachshund coat becomes a brown mortuary habit. His green eye flashes bloodshot. Half of one ear, all the nose and both thumbs are ghouleaten. Paddy Dignam In a hollow voice. It is true. It was my funeral. Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the disease from natural causes. He lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously. Bloom In triumph. You hear? Paddy Dignam Bloom, I am Paddy Dignam’s spirit. List, list, O list! Bloom The voice is the voice of Esau. Second Watch Blesses himself. How is that possible? First Watch It is not in the penny catechism. Paddy Dignam By metempsychosis. Spooks. A Voice O rocks. Paddy Dignam Earnestly. Once I was in the employ of Mr J. H. Menton solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor’s Walk. Now I am defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied. Hard lines. The poor wife was awfully cut up. How is she bearing it? Keep her off that bottle of sherry. He looks round him. A lamp. I must satisfy an animal need. That buttermilk didn’t agree with me. The portly figure of John O’Connell, caretaker stands forth, holding a bunch of keys tied with crape. Beside him stands Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding sleepily a staff of twisted poppies. Father Coffey Yawns, then chants with a hoarse croak. Namine. Jacobs Vobiscuits. Amen. John O’Connell Foghorns stormily through his megaphone. Dignam, Patrick T, deceased. Paddy Dignam With pricked up ears, winces. Overtones. He wriggles forward, places an ear to the ground. My master’s voice! John O’Connell Burial docket letter number U. P. Eightyfive thousand. Field seventeen. House of Keys. Plot, one hundred and one. Paddy Dignam listens with visible effort, thinking, his tail stiffpointed, his ears cocked. Paddy Dignam Pray for the repose of his soul. He worms down through a coalhole, his brown habit trailing its tether over rattling pebbles. After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a grey carapace. Dignam’s voice, muffled, is heard baying under ground: Dignam’s dead and gone below. Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in cap and breeches, jumps from his twocolumned machine. Tom Rochford A hand to his breastbone, bows. Reuben J. A florin I find him. He fixes the manhole with a resolute stare. My turn now on. Follow me up to Carlow. He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the air and is engulfed in the coalhole. Two discs on the columns wobble eyes of nought. All recedes. Bloom plodges forward again. He stands before a lighted house, listening. The kisses, winging from their bowers fly about him, twittering, warbling, cooing. The Kisses Warbling. Leo! Twittering. Icky licky micky sticky for Leo! Cooing. Coo coocoo! Yummyumm Womwom! Warbling. Big comebig! Pirouette! Leopopold! Twittering. Leeolee! Warbling. O Leo! They rustle, flutter upon his garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins. Bloom A man’s touch. Sad music. Church music. Perhaps here. Zoe Higgins, a young whore in a sapphire slip, closed with three bronze buckles, a slim black velvet fillet round her throat, nods, trips down the steps and accosts him. Zoe Are you looking for someone? He’s inside with his friend. Bloom Is this Mrs Mack’s? Zoe No, eightyone. Mrs Cohen’s. You might go farther and fare worse. Mother Slipperslapper. Familiarly. She’s on the job herself tonight with the vet, her tipster, that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford. Working overtime but her luck’s turned today. Suspiciously. You’re not his father, are you? Bloom Not I! Zoe You both in black. Has little mousey any tickles tonight? His skin, alert, feels her fingertips approach. A hand slides over his left thigh. Zoe How’s the nuts? Bloom Off side. Curiously they are on the right. Heavier I suppose. One in a million my tailor, Mesias, says. Zoe In sudden alarm. You’ve a hard chancre. Bloom Not likely. Zoe I feel it. Her hand slides into his left trouser pocket and brings out a hard black shrivelled potato. She regards it and Bloom with dumb moist lips. Bloom A talisman. Heirloom. Zoe For Zoe? For keeps? For being so nice, eh? She puts the potato greedily into a pocket, then links his arm, cuddling him with supple warmth. He smiles uneasily. Slowly, note by note, oriental music is played. He gazes in the tawny crystal of her eyes, ringed with kohol. His smile softens. Zoe You’ll know me the next time. Bloom Forlornly. I never loved a dear gazelle but it was sure to⁠ ⁠… Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the mountains. Near