Ulysses

her neckfillet. Honest? Till the next time. She sneers. Suppose you got up the wrong side of the bed or came too quick with your best girl. O, I can read your thoughts. Bloom Bitterly. Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and bottle. Zoe In sudden sulks. I hate a rotter that’s insincere. Give a bleeding whore a chance. Bloom Repentantly. I am very disagreable. You are a necessary evil. Where are you from? London? Zoe Glibly. Hog’s Norton where the pigs plays the organs. I’m Yorkshire born She holds his hand which is feeling for her nipple. I say, Tommy Tittlemouse. Stop that and begin worse. Have you cash for a short time? Ten shillings? Bloom Smiles, nods slowly. More, houri, more. Zoe And more’s mother? She pats him offhandedly with velvet paws. Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola? Come and I’ll peel off. Bloom Feeling his occiput dubiously with the unparalleled embarrassment of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her peeled pears. Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she knew. The greeneyed monster Earnestly. You know how difficult it is. I needn’t tell you. Zoe Flattered. What the eye can’t see the heart can’t grieve for She pats him. Come. Bloom Laughing witch! The hand that rocks the cradle. Zoe Babby! Bloom In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with a caul of dark hair, fixes big eyes on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles with a chubby finger, his moist tongue lolling and lisping. One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone. The Buckles Love me. Love me not. Love me. Zoe Silent means consent. With little parted talons she captures his hand, her forefinger giving to his palm the passtouch of secret monitor, luring him to doom. Hot hands cold gizzard. He hesitates amid scents, music, temptations. She leads him towards the steps, drawing him by the odour of her armpits, the vice of her painted eyes, the rustle of her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all the male brutes that have possessed her. The Male Brutes Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in their loosebox, faintly roaring, their drugged heads swaying to and fro. Good! Zoe and Bloom reach the doorway where two sister whores are seated. They examine him curiously from under their pencilled brows and smile to his hasty bow. He trips awkwardly. Zoe Her lucky hand instantly saving him. Hoopsa! Don’t fall upstairs. Bloom The just man falls seven times He stands aside at the threshold. After you is good manners. Zoe Ladies first, gentlemen after. She crosses the threshold. He hesitates. She turns and, holding out her hands, draws him over. He hops. On the antlered rack of the hall hang a man’s hat and waterproof. Bloom uncovers himself but, seeing them, frowns then smiles, preoccupied. A door on the return landing is thrown open. A man in purple shirt and grey trousers brownsocked, passes with an ape’s gait, his bald head and goatee beard upheld, hugging a full waterjugjar, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels. Averting his face quickly Bloom bends to examine on the halltable the spaniel eyes of a running fox: then, his lifted head sniffing, follows Zoe into the musicroom. A shade of mauve tissuepaper dims the light of the chandelier. Round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping. The floor is covered with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids. Footmarks are stamped over it in all senses, heel to heel, heel to hollow, toe to toe, feet locked, a morris of shuffling feet without body phantoms, all in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. The walls are tapestried with a paper of yewfronds and clear glades. In the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers. Lynch squats crosslegged on the hearthrug of matted hair, his cap back to the front. With a wand he beats time slowly. Kitty Ricketts, a bony pallid whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a coral wristlet, a chain purse in her hand, sits perched on the edge of the table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the gilt mirror over the mantlepiece. A tag of her corset lace hangs slightly below her jacket. Lynch indicates mockingly the couple at the piano. Kitty Coughs behind her hand. She’s a bit imbecillic. She signs with a waggling forefinger. Blemblem. Lynch lifts up her skirt and white petticoat with the wand. She settles them down quickly. Respect yourself. She hiccups, then bends quickly her sailor hat under which her hair glows, red with henna. O, excuse! Zoe More limelight, Charley. She goes to the chandelier and turns the gas full cock. Kitty Peers at the gasjet. What ails it tonight? Lynch Deeply. Enter a ghost and hobgoblins. Zoe Clap on the back for Zoe. The wand in Lynch’s hand flashes: a brass poker. Stephen stands at the pianola on which sprawl his hat and ashplant. With two fingers he repeats once more the series of empty fifths. Florry Talbot, a blond feeble goosefat whore in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry lolls spreadeagle in the sofa corner, her limp forearm pendent over the bolster, listening. A heavy stye droops over her sleepy eyelid. Kitty Hiccups again with a kick of her horsed foot. O, excuse! Zoe Promptly. Your boy’s thinking of you. Tie a knot on your shift. Kitty Ricketts bends her head. Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over her shoulder, back, arm, chair to the ground. Lynch lifts the curled catterpillar on his wand. She snakes her neck, nestling. Stephen glances behind at the squatted figure with its cap back to the front. Stephen As a matter of fact it is of no importance whether Benedetto Marcello found it or made it. The rite is the poet’s rest. It