Ulysses

her pose, lifts to the edge of a chair a plump buskined hoof and a full pastern, silksocked. Bloom, stifflegged, aging, bends over her hoof and with gentle fingers draws out and in her laces. Bloom Murmurs lovingly. To be a shoefitter in Mansfield’s was my love’s young dream, the darling joys of sweet buttonhooking, to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so incredibly small, of Clyde Road ladies. Even their wax model Raymonde I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick of rhubarb toe, as worn in Paris. The Hoof Smell my hot goathide. Feel my royal weight. Bloom Crosslacing. Too tight? The Hoof If you bungle, Handy Andy, I’ll kick your football for you. Bloom Not to lace the wrong eyelet as I did the night of the bazaar dance. Bad luck. Nook in wrong tache of her⁠ ⁠… person you mentioned. That night she me⁠ ⁠… Now! He knots the lace. Bella places her foot on the floor. Bloom raises his head. Her heavy face, her eyes strike him in midbrow. His eyes grow dull, darker and pouched, his nose thickens. Bloom Mumbles. Awaiting your further orders, we remain, gentlemen⁠ ⁠… Bello With a hard basilisk stare, in a baritone voice. Hound of dishonour! Bloom Infatuated. Empress! Bello His heavy cheekchops sagging. Adorer of the adulterous rump! Bloom Plaintively. Hugeness! Bello Dungdevourer! Bloom With sinews semiflexed. Magnificence! Bello Down! He taps her on the shoulder with his fan. Incline feet forward! Slide left foot one pace back. You will fall. You are falling. On the hands down! Bloom Her eyes upturned in the sign of admiration, closing. Truffles! With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all fours, grunting, snuffling, rooting at his feet, then lies, shamming dead with eyes shut tight, trembling eyelids, bowed upon the ground in the attitude of most excellent master. Bello With bobbed hair, purple gills, fat moustache rings ronnd his shaven mouth, in mountaineer’s puttees, green silverbuttoned coat, sport skirt and alpine hat with moorcock’s feather, his hands stuck deep in his breeches pockets, places his heel on her neck and grinds it in. Feel my entire weight. Bow, bondslave, before the throne of your despot’s glorious heels, so glistening in their proud erectness. Bloom Enthralled, bleats. I promise never to disobey. Bello Laughs loudly. Holy smoke! You little know what’s in store for you. I’m the tartar to settle your little lot and break you in! I’ll bet Kentucky cocktails all round I shame it out of you, old son. Cheek me, I dare you. If you do tremble in anticipation of heel discipline to be inflicted in gym costume. Bloom creeps under the sofa and peers out through the fringe. Zoe Widening her slip to screen her. She’s not here. Bloom Closing her eyes. She’s not here. Florry Hiding her with her gown. She didn’t mean it, Mr Bello. She’ll be good, sir. Kitty Don’t be too hard on her, Mr Bello. Sure you won’t, ma’amsir. Bello Coaxingly. Come, ducky dear. I want a word with you, darling, just to administer correction. Just a little heart to heart talk, sweety. Bloom puts out her timid head. There’s a good girly now. Bello grabs her hair violently and drags her forward. I only want to correct you for your own good on a soft safe spot. How’s that tender behind? O, ever so gently, pet. Begin to get ready. Bloom Fainting. Don’t tear my⁠ ⁠… Bello Savagely. The nosering, the pliers, the bastinado, the hanging hook, the knout I’ll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of old. You’re in for it this time. I’ll make you remember me for the balance of your natural life. His forehead veins swollen, his face congested. I shall sit on your ottomansaddleback every morning after my thumping good breakfast of Matterson’s fat ham rashers and a bottle of Guinness’s porter. He belches. And suck my thumping good Stock Exchange cigar while I read the Licensed Victualler’s Gazette. Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you with crisp crackling from the baking tin basted and baked like sucking pig with rice and lemon or currant sauce. It will hurt you. He twists her arm. Bloom squeaks, turning turtle. Bloom Don’t be cruel, nurse! Don’t! Bello Twisting. Another! Bloom Screams. O, it’s hell itself! Every nerve in my body aches like mad! Bello Shouts. Good, by the rumping jumping general! That’s the best bit of news I heard these six weeks. Here, don’t keep me waiting, damn you. He slaps her face. Bloom Whimpers. You’re after hitting me. I’ll tell⁠ ⁠… Bello Hold him down, girls, till I squat on him. Zoe Yes. Walk on him! I will. Florry I will. Don’t be greedy. Kitty No, me. Lend him to me. The brothel cook, Mrs Keogh, wrinkled, greybearded, in a greasy bib, men’s grey and green socks and brogues, floursmeared, a rollingpin stuck with raw pastry in her bare red arm and hand, appears at the door. Mrs Keogh Ferociously. Can I help? They hold and pinion Bloom. Bello Squats, with a grunt, on Bloom’s upturned face, puffing cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg. I see Keating Clay is elected chairman of the Richmond Asylum and bytheby Guinness’s preference shares are at sixteen three quarters. Curse me for a fool that I didn’t buy that lot Craig and Gardner told me about. Just my infernal luck, curse it. And that Goddamned outsider Throwaway at twenty to one. He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom’s ear. Where’s that Goddamned cursed ashtray? Bloom Goaded, buttocksmothered. O! O! Monsters! Cruel one! Bello Ask for that every ten minutes. Beg, pray for it as you never prayed before. He thrusts out a figged fist and foul cigar. Here, kiss that. Both. Kiss. He throws a leg astride and, pressing with horseman’s knees, calls in a hard