Episode 11: Sirens (Literary technique: Fuga per canonem (fugue or polyphony by rule: weaving of various voices and motifs in counterpoint to one another). Art: Music. Time: 38 40 pm. Place: Ormond Hotel



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Movement 1: To Bella Cohen’s. Opens with description of the area that calls into question initial impressions. “Stunted men and women” with “coral copper snow” become children sucking ices. Genuine grotesqueness of the deaf-mute idiot presents one with the sense of how deformed reality can become. Cissy Caffrey and Edy Boardman--earlier represented as relatively innocent girls--reappear as prostitutes.
THE MABBOT STREET ENTRANCE OF NIGHTTOWN, BEFORE WHICH STRETCHES AN

UNCOBBLED TRAMSIDING SET WITH SKELETON TRACKS, RED AND GREEN WILL-O'-THE-

WISPS AND DANGER SIGNALS. ROWS OF GRIMY HOUSES WITH GAPING DOORS. RARE

LAMPS WITH FAINT RAINBOW FINS. ROUND RABAIOTTI'S HALTED ICE GONDOLA

STUNTED MEN AND WOMEN SQUABBLE. THEY GRAB WAFERS BETWEEN WHICH ARE WEDGED

LUMPS OF CORAL AND COPPER SNOW. SUCKING, THEY SCATTER SLOWLY. CHILDREN.

THE SWANCOMB OF THE GONDOLA, HIGHREARED, FORGES ON THROUGH THE MURK,

WHITE AND BLUE UNDER A LIGHTHOUSE. WHISTLES CALL AND ANSWER.
THE CALLS: Wait, my love, and I'll be with you.
THE ANSWERS: Round behind the stable.
(A DEAFMUTE IDIOT WITH GOGGLE EYES, HIS SHAPELESS MOUTH DRIBBLING, JERKS

PAST, SHAKEN IN SAINT VITUS' DANCE. A CHAIN OF CHILDREN 'S HANDS

IMPRISONS HIM.)
THE CHILDREN: Kithogue! Salute!
THE IDIOT: (LIFTS A PALSIED LEFT ARM AND GURGLES) Grhahute!
THE CHILDREN: Where's the great light?
THE IDIOT: (GOBBING) Ghaghahest.
(THEY RELEASE HIM. HE JERKS ON. A PIGMY WOMAN SWINGS ON A ROPE SLUNG

BETWEEN TWO RAILINGS, COUNTING. A FORM SPRAWLED AGAINST A DUSTBIN AND

MUFFLED BY ITS ARM AND HAT SNORES, GROANS, GRINDING GROWLING TEETH, AND

SNORES AGAIN. ON A STEP A GNOME TOTTING AMONG A RUBBISHTIP CROUCHES TO

SHOULDER A SACK OF RAGS AND BONES. A CRONE STANDING BY WITH A SMOKY

OILLAMP RAMS HER LAST BOTTLE IN THE MAW OF HIS SACK. HE HEAVES HIS BOOTY,

TUGS ASKEW HIS PEAKED CAP AND HOBBLES OFF MUTELY. THE CRONE MAKES BACK

FOR HER LAIR, SWAYING HER LAMP. A BANDY CHILD, ASQUAT ON THE DOORSTEP

WITH A PAPER SHUTTLECOCK, CRAWLS SIDLING AFTER HER IN SPURTS, CLUTCHES

HER SKIRT, SCRAMBLES UP. A DRUNKEN NAVVY GRIPS WITH BOTH HANDS THE

RAILINGS OF AN AREA, LURCHING HEAVILY. AT A COMER TWO NIGHT WATCH IN

SHOULDERCAPES, THEIR HANDS UPON THEIR STAFFHOLSTERS, LOOM TALL. A PLATE

CRASHES: A WOMAN SCREAMS: A CHILD WAILS. OATHS OF A MAN ROAR, MUTTER,

CEASE. FIGURES WANDER, LURK, PEER FROM WARRENS. IN A ROOM LIT BY A CANDLE

STUCK IN A BOTTLENECK A SLUT COMBS OUT THE TATTS FROM THE HAIR OF A

SCROFULOUS CHILD. CISSY CAFFREY'S VOICE, STILL YOUNG, SINGS SHRILL FROM A

LANE.)
Stephan is seen walking with Lynch, singing the introit (black mass?) . Flourishing his ashplant, Stephen strikes a lamp pole (?) “shattering light over the world.” Stephen seems to be engaged with Lynch on a discussion of aesthetics previously shown in Portrait. Bloom finally makes his appearance, under the railway bridge at Talbot St. He examines himself, elongated and enlarged, in the convex mirror in the window of Gillen’s hairdresser’s (now Connolly’s shoe store) at No. 64 before entering Antonio Rabaiotti’s fish-and-chip shop at No. 65 (now the Pantheon Café). Deciding against their fare (“Fish and taters. N.g.”), he goes instead into Olhausen’s, the porkbutcher’s at No. 72 to buy a pig’s crubeen (pig’s foot) and a sheep’s trotter (sheep’s foot). At the corner of Thomas Cormack’s pub (now The Rambler), Bloom looks south at the illumination from the blaze from Mount St., turns right and crosses the road. In transit, he is grazed by two cyclists and nearly run down by a sandstrewer. “Hat trick”: Covering a turd with a hat, you tell a policeman that it is a wounded bird and you go off to get help, asking the policeman to stand guard.
CISSY CAFFREY:

I GAVE IT TO MOLLY

BECAUSE SHE WAS JOLLY,

THE LEG OF THE DUCK,

THE LEG OF THE DUCK.

(PRIVATE CARR AND PRIVATE COMPTON, SWAGGERSTICKS TIGHT IN THEIR OXTERS,

AS THEY MARCH UNSTEADILY RIGHTABOUTFACE AND BURST TOGETHER FROM THEIR

MOUTHS A VOLLEYED FART. LAUGHTER OF MEN FROM THE LANE. A HOARSE VIRAGO

RETORTS.)
THE VIRAGO: Signs on you, hairy arse. More power the Cavan girl.
CISSY CAFFREY: More luck to me. Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet. (SHE

SINGS)

I GAVE IT TO NELLY

TO STICK IN HER BELLY,

THE LEG OF THE DUCK,

THE LEG OF THE DUCK.

(PRIVATE CARR AND PRIVATE COMPTON TURN AND COUNTERRETORT, THEIR TUNICS

BLOODBRIGHT IN A LAMPGLOW, BLACK SOCKETS OF CAPS ON THEIR BLOND CROPPED

POLLS. STEPHEN DEDALUS AND LYNCH PASS THROUGH THE CROWD CLOSE TO THE

REDCOATS.)
PRIVATE COMPTON: (JERKS HIS FINGER) Way for the parson.
PRIVATE CARR: (TURNS AND CALLS) What ho, parson!
CISSY CAFFREY: (HER VOICE SOARING HIGHER)

SHE HAS IT, SHE GOT IT,

WHEREVER SHE PUT IT,

THE LEG OF THE DUCK.

(STEPHEN, FLOURISHING THE ASHPLANT IN HIS LEFT HAND, CHANTS WITH JOY THE

INTROIT FOR PASCHAL TIME. LYNCH, HIS JOCKEYCAP LOW ON HIS BROW, ATTENDS

HIM, A SNEER OF DISCONTENT WRINKLING HIS FACE.)
STEPHEN: VIDI AQUAM EGREDIENTEM DE TEMPLO A LATERE DEXTRO. ALLELUIA.
(THE FAMISHED SNAGGLETUSKS OF AN ELDERLY BAWD PROTRUDE FROM A DOORWAY.)
THE BAWD: (HER VOICE WHISPERING HUSKILY) Sst! Come here till I tell you.

Maidenhead inside. Sst!
STEPHEN: (ALTIUS ALIQUANTULUM) ET OMNES AD QUOS PERVENIT AQUA ISTA.
THE BAWD: (SPITS IN THEIR TRAIL HER JET OF VENOM) Trinity medicals.

Fallopian tube. All prick and no pence.
(EDY BOARDMAN, SNIFFLING, CROUCHED WITH BERTHA SUPPLE, DRAWS HER SHAWL

ACROSS HER NOSTRILS.)
EDY BOARDMAN: (BICKERING) And says the one: I seen you up Faithful place

with your squarepusher, the greaser off the railway, in his cometobed

hat. Did you, says I. That's not for you to say, says I. You never seen

me in the mantrap with a married highlander, says I. The likes of her!

Stag that one is! Stubborn as a mule! And her walking with two fellows

the one time, Kilbride, the enginedriver, and lancecorporal Oliphant.
STEPHEN: (TRIUMPHALITER) SALVI FACTI SUNT.
(HE FLOURISHES HIS ASHPLANT, SHIVERING THE LAMP IMAGE, SHATTERING LIGHT

OVER THE WORLD. A LIVER AND WHITE SPANIEL ON THE PROWL SLINKS AFTER HIM,

GROWLING. LYNCH SCARES IT WITH A KICK.)
LYNCH: So that?
STEPHEN: (LOOKS BEHIND) So that gesture, not music not odour, would be a

universal language, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay

sense but the first entelechy, the structural rhythm.
LYNCH: Pornosophical philotheology. Metaphysics in Mecklenburgh street!
STEPHEN: We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates. Even the

allwisest Stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a light of love.
LYNCH: Ba!
STEPHEN: Anyway, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and a jug?

This movement illustrates the loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar. Hold

my stick.
LYNCH: Damn your yellow stick. Where are we going?
STEPHEN: Lecherous lynx, TO LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI, Georgina Johnson,

AD DEAM QUI LAETIFICAT IUVENTUTEM MEAM.
(STEPHEN THRUSTS THE ASHPLANT ON HIM AND SLOWLY HOLDS OUT HIS HANDS, HIS

HEAD GOING BACK TILL BOTH HANDS ARE A SPAN FROM HIS BREAST, DOWN TURNED,

IN PLANES INTERSECTING, THE FINGERS ABOUT TO PART, THE LEFT BEING

HIGHER.)
LYNCH: Which is the jug of bread? It skills not. That or the customhouse.

Illustrate thou. Here take your crutch and walk.
(THEY PASS. TOMMY CAFFREY SCRAMBLES TO A GASLAMP AND, CLASPING, CLIMBS IN

SPASMS. FROM THE TOP SPUR HE SLIDES DOWN. JACKY CAFFREY CLASPS TO CLIMB.

THE NAVVY LURCHES AGAINST THE LAMP. THE TWINS SCUTTLE OFF IN THE DARK.

THE NAVVY, SWAYING, PRESSES A FOREFINGER AGAINST A WING OF HIS NOSE AND

EJECTS FROM THE FARTHER NOSTRIL A LONG LIQUID JET OF SNOT. SHOULDERING

THE LAMP HE STAGGERS AWAY THROUGH THE CROWD WITH HIS FLARING CRESSET.
SNAKES OF RIVER FOG CREEP SLOWLY. FROM DRAINS, CLEFTS, CESSPOOLS, MIDDENS

ARISE ON ALL SIDES STAGNANT FUMES. A GLOW LEAPS IN THE SOUTH BEYOND THE

SEAWARD REACHES OF THE RIVER. THE NAVVY, STAGGERING FORWARD, CLEAVES THE

CROWD AND LURCHES TOWARDS THE TRAMSIDING ON THE FARTHER SIDE UNDER THE

RAILWAY BRIDGE BLOOM APPEARS, FLUSHED, PANTING, CRAMMING BREAD AND

CHOCOLATE INTO A SIDEPOCKET. FROM GILLEN'S HAIRDRESSER'S WINDOW A

COMPOSITE PORTRAIT SHOWS HIM GALLANT NELSON'S IMAGE. A CONCAVE MIRROR AT

THE SIDE PRESENTS TO HIM LOVELORN LONGLOST LUGUBRU BOOLOOHOOM. GRAVE

GLADSTONE SEES HIM LEVEL, BLOOM FOR BLOOM. HE PASSES, STRUCK BY THE STARE

OF TRUCULENT WELLINGTON, BUT IN THE CONVEX MIRROR GRIN UNSTRUCK THE

BONHAM EYES AND FATCHUCK CHEEKCHOPS OF JOLLYPOLDY THE RIXDIX DOLDY.
AT ANTONIO PABAIOTTI'S DOOR BLOOM HALTS, SWEATED UNDER THE BRIGHT

ARCLAMP. HE DISAPPEARS. IN A MOMENT HE REAPPEARS AND HURRIES ON.)
BLOOM: Fish and taters. N. g. Ah!
(HE DISAPPEARS INTO OLHAUSEN'S, THE PORKBUTCHER'S, UNDER THE DOWNCOMING

ROLLSHUTTER. A FEW MOMENTS LATER HE EMERGES FROM UNDER THE SHUTTER,

PUFFING POLDY, BLOWING BLOOHOOM. IN EACH HAND HE HOLDS A PARCEL, ONE

CONTAINING A LUKEWARM PIG'S CRUBEEN, THE OTHER A COLD SHEEP'S TROTTER,

SPRINKLED WITH WHOLEPEPPER. HE GASPS, STANDING UPRIGHT. THEN BENDING TO

ONE SIDE HE PRESSES A PARCEL AGAINST HIS RIBS AND GROANS.)
BLOOM: Stitch in my side. Why did I run?
(HE TAKES BREATH WITH CARE AND GOES FORWARD SLOWLY TOWARDS THE LAMPSET

SIDING. THE GLOW LEAPS AGAIN.)
BLOOM: What is that? A flasher? Searchlight.
(HE STANDS AT CORMACK'S CORNER, WATCHING)
BLOOM: AURORA BOREALIS or a steel foundry? Ah, the brigade, of course.

South side anyhow. Big blaze. Might be his house. Beggar's bush. We're

safe. (HE HUMS CHEERFULLY) London's burning, London's burning! On fire,

on fire! (HE CATCHES SIGHT OF THE NAVVY LURCHING THROUGH THE CROWD AT THE

FARTHER SIDE OF TALBOT STREET) I'll miss him. Run. Quick. Better cross

here.
(HE DARTS TO CROSS THE ROAD. URCHINS SHOUT.)
THE URCHINS: Mind out, mister! (TWO CYCLISTS, WITH LIGHTED PAPER LANTERNS

ASWING, SWIM BY HIM, GRAZING HIM, THEIR BELLS RATTLING)
THE BELLS: Haltyaltyaltyall.
BLOOM: (HALTS ERECT, STUNG BY A SPASM) Ow!
(HE LOOKS ROUND, DARTS FORWARD SUDDENLY. THROUGH RISING FOG A DRAGON

SANDSTREWER, TRAVELLING AT CAUTION, SLEWS HEAVILY DOWN UPON HIM, ITS HUGE

RED HEADLIGHT WINKING, ITS TROLLEY HISSING ON THE WIRE. THE MOTORMAN

BANGS HIS FOOTGONG.)
THE GONG: Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.
(THE BRAKE CRACKS VIOLENTLY. BLOOM, RAISING A POLICEMAN'S WHITEGLOVED

HAND, BLUNDERS STIFFLEGGED OUT OF THE TRACK. THE MOTORMAN, THROWN

FORWARD, PUGNOSED, ON THE GUIDEWHEEL, YELLS AS HE SLIDES PAST OVER CHAINS

AND KEYS.)
THE MOTORMAN: Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hat trick?
BLOOM: (BLOOM TRICKLEAPS TO THE CURBSTONE AND HALTS AGAIN. HE BRUSHES A

MUDFLAKE FROM HIS CHEEK WITH A PARCELLED HAND.) No thoroughfare. Close

shave that but cured the stitch. Must take up Sandow's exercises again.

On the hands down. Insure against street accident too. The Providential.

(HE FEELS HIS TROUSER POCKET) Poor mamma's panacea. Heel easily catch in

track or bootlace in a cog. Day the wheel of the black Maria peeled off

my shoe at Leonard's corner. Third time is the charm. Shoe trick.

Insolent driver. I ought to report him. Tension makes them nervous. Might

be the fellow balked me this morning with that horsey woman. Same style

of beauty. Quick of him all the same. The stiff walk. True word spoken in

jest. That awful cramp in Lad lane. Something poisonous I ate. Emblem of

luck. Why? Probably lost cattle. Mark of the beast. (HE CLOSES HIS EYES

AN INSTANT) Bit light in the head. Monthly or effect of the other.

Brainfogfag. That tired feeling. Too much for me now. Ow!
At O’Beirne’s wall--O’Beirne Brothers, tea and wine merchants (62 Mabbot St., corner of Talbot St., now vacant lot across the road at No. 26 Talbot St.)--Bloom sees his first hallucination: a sinister figure who asks him the password.
(A SINISTER FIGURE LEANS ON PLAITED LEGS AGAINST O'BEIRNE'S WALL, A

VISAGE UNKNOWN, INJECTED WITH DARK MERCURY. FROM UNDER A WIDELEAVED

SOMBRERO THE FIGURE REGARDS HIM WITH EVIL EYE.)
BLOOM: BUENAS NOCHES, SENORITA BLANCA. QUE CALLE ES ESTA?
THE FIGURE: (IMPASSIVE, RAISES A SIGNAL ARM) Password. SRAID MABBOT.
BLOOM: Haha. MERCI. Esperanto. SLAN LEATH. (HE MUTTERS) Gaelic league

spy, sent by that fireeater.
(HE STEPS FORWARD. A SACKSHOULDERED RAGMAN BARS HIS PATH. HE STEPS LEFT,

RAGSACKMAN LEFT.)
BLOOM: I beg. (HE SWERVES, SIDLES, STEPASIDE, SLIPS PAST AND ON.)
BLOOM: Keep to the right, right, right. If there is a signpost planted by

the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon? I who lost

my way and contributed to the columns of the IRISH CYCLIST the letter

headed IN DARKEST STEPASIDE. Keep, keep, keep to the right. Rags and

bones at midnight. A fence more likely. First place murderer makes for.

Wash off his sins of the world.
(JACKY CAFFREY, HUNTED BY TOMMY CAFFREY, RUNS FULL TILT AGAINST BLOOM.)
BLOOM: O
(SHOCKED, ON WEAK HAMS, HE HALTS. TOMMY AND JACKY VANISH THERE, THERE.

BLOOM PATS WITH PARCELLED HANDS WATCH FOBPOCKET, BOOKPOCKET, PURSEPOKET,

SWEETS OF SIN, POTATO SOAP.)
BLOOM: Beware of pickpockets. Old thieves' dodge. Collide. Then snatch

your purse.
Proceeding up Mabbot St., Bloom encounters a ragman, children, a dog, ghosts from his past, a bawd and Mrs. Breen to whom he tries to explain away his presence in the area. They part, probably at the corner of Purdon St., and Bloom walks on, past noisy wrestling loiterers, while whores “call from lanes, doors, corners.” He tosses the crubeen and the trotter to the dog that has been following him and is approached by two suspicious policemen. There follows a phantasmagoric trial in which his guilty conscience conjures up more ghosts.
Bloom first encounters the apparition of his father, Rudolf Bloom:
(THE RETRIEVER APPROACHES SNIFFING, NOSE TO THE GROUND. A SPRAWLED FORM

SNEEZES. A STOOPED BEARDED FIGURE APPEARS GARBED IN THE LONG CAFTAN OF AN

ELDER IN ZION AND A SMOKINGCAP WITH MAGENTA TASSELS. HORNED SPECTACLES

HANG DOWN AT THE WINGS OF THE NOSE. YELLOW POISON STREAKS ARE ON THE

DRAWN FACE.)
RUDOLPH: Second halfcrown waste money today. I told you not go with

drunken goy ever. So you catch no money.
BLOOM: (HIDES THE CRUBEEN AND TROTTER BEHIND HIS BACK AND, CRESTFALLEN,

FEELS WARM AND COLD FEETMEAT) JA, ICH WEISS, PAPACHI.
RUDOLPH: What you making down this place? Have you no soul? (WITH FEEBLE

VULTURE TALONS HE FEELS THE SILENT FACE OF BLOOM) Are you not my son

Leopold, the grandson of Leopold? Are you not my dear son Leopold who

left the house of his father and left the god of his fathers Abraham and

Jacob?
BLOOM: (WITH PRECAUTION) I suppose so, father. Mosenthal. All that's left

of him.
RUDOLPH: (SEVERELY) One night they bring you home drunk as dog after

spend your good money. What you call them running chaps?
BLOOM: (IN YOUTH'S SMART BLUE OXFORD SUIT WITH WHITE VESTSLIPS,

NARROWSHOULDERED, IN BROWN ALPINE HAT, WEARING GENT'S STERLING SILVER

WATERBURY KEYLESS WATCH AND DOUBLE CURB ALBERT WITH SEAL ATTACHED, ONE

SIDE OF HIM COATED WITH STIFFENING MUD) Harriers, father. Only that once.
RUDOLPH: Once! Mud head to foot. Cut your hand open. Lockjaw. They make

you kaputt, Leopoldleben. You watch them chaps.
BLOOM: (WEAKLY) They challenged me to a sprint. It was muddy. I slipped.
RUDOLPH: (WITH CONTEMPT) GOIM NACHEZ! Nice spectacles for your poor

mother!
Followed by his mother:
BLOOM: Mamma!
ELLEN BLOOM: (IN PANTOMIME DAME'S STRINGED MOBCAP, WIDOW TWANKEY'S

CRINOLINE AND BUSTLE, BLOUSE WITH MUTTONLEG SLEEVES BUTTONED BEHIND, GREY

MITTENS AND CAMEO BROOCH, HER PLAITED HAIR IN A CRISPINE NET, APPEARS

OVER THE STAIRCASE BANISTERS, A SLANTED CANDLESTICK IN HER HAND, AND

CRIES OUT IN SHRILL ALARM) O blessed Redeemer, what have they done to

him! My smelling salts! (SHE HAULS UP A REEF OF SKIRT AND RANSACKS THE

POUCH OF HER STRIPED BLAY PETTICOAT. A PHIAL, AN AGNUS DEI, A SHRIVELLED

POTATO AND A CELLULOID DOLL FALL OUT) Sacred Heart of Mary, where were

you at all at all?
(BLOOM, MUMBLING, HIS EYES DOWNCAST, BEGINS TO BESTOW HIS PARCELS IN HIS

FILLED POCKETS BUT DESISTS, MUTTERING.)
A VOICE: (SHARPLY) Poldy!
BLOOM: Who? (HE DUCKS AND WARDS OFF A BLOW CLUMSILY) At your service.
Followed by Molly:
(HE LOOKS UP. BESIDE HER MIRAGE OF DATEPALMS A HANDSOME WOMAN IN TURKISH

COSTUME STANDS BEFORE HIM. OPULENT CURVES FILL OUT HER SCARLET TROUSERS

AND JACKET, SLASHED WITH GOLD. A WIDE YELLOW CUMMERBUND GIRDLES HER. A

WHITE YASHMAK, VIOLET IN THE NIGHT, COVERS HER FACE, LEAVING FREE ONLY

HER LARGE DARK EYES AND RAVEN HAIR.)
BLOOM: Molly!
MARION: Welly? Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to

me. (SATIRICALLY) Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long?
BLOOM: (SHIFTS FROM FOOT TO FOOT) No, no. Not the least little bit.
(HE BREATHES IN DEEP AGITATION, SWALLOWING GULPS OF AIR, QUESTIONS,

HOPES, CRUBEENS FOR HER SUPPER, THINGS TO TELL HER, EXCUSE, DESIRE,

SPELLBOUND. A COIN GLEAMS ON HER FOREHEAD. ON HER FEET ARE JEWELLED

TOERINGS. HER ANKLES ARE LINKED BY A SLENDER FETTERCHAIN. BESIDE HER A

CAMEL, HOODED WITH A TURRETING TURBAN, WAITS. A SILK LADDER OF

INNUMERABLE RUNGS CLIMBS TO HIS BOBBING HOWDAH. HE AMBLES NEAR WITH

DISGRUNTLED HINDQUARTERS. FIERCELY SHE SLAPS HIS HAUNCH, HER GOLDCURB

WRISTBANGLES ANGRILING, SCOLDING HIM IN MOORISH.)
MARION: Nebrakada! Femininum!
(THE CAMEL, LIFTING A FORELEG, PLUCKS FROM A TREE A LARGE MANGO FRUIT,

OFFERS IT TO HIS MISTRESS, BLINKING, IN HIS CLOVEN HOOF, THEN DROOPS HIS

HEAD AND, GRUNTING, WITH UPLIFTED NECK, FUMBLES TO KNEEL. BLOOM STOOPS

HIS BACK FOR LEAPFROG.)
BLOOM: I can give you ... I mean as your business menagerer ... Mrs

Marion ... if you ...
MARION: So you notice some change? (HER HANDS PASSING SLOWLY OVER HER

TRINKETED STOMACHER, A SLOW FRIENDLY MOCKERY IN HER EYES) O Poldy, Poldy,

you are a poor old stick in the mud! Go and see life. See the wide world.
BLOOM: I was just going back for that lotion whitewax, orangeflower

water. Shop closes early on Thursday. But the first thing in the morning.

(HE PATS DIVERS POCKETS) This moving kidney. Ah!
(HE POINTS TO THE SOUTH, THEN TO THE EAST. A CAKE OF NEW CLEAN LEMON SOAP

ARISES, DIFFUSING LIGHT AND PERFUME.)
THE SOAP:

We're a capital couple are Bloom and I.

He brightens the earth. I polish the sky.

(THE FRECKLED FACE OF SWENY, THE DRUGGIST, APPEARS IN THE DISC OF THE

SOAPSUN.)
SWENY: Three and a penny, please.
BLOOM: Yes. For my wife. Mrs Marion. Special recipe.
MARION: (SOFTLY) Poldy!
BLOOM: Yes, ma'am?
MARION: TI TREMA UN POCO IL CUORE?
(IN DISDAIN SHE SAUNTERS AWAY, PLUMP AS A PAMPERED POUTER PIGEON, HUMMING

THE DUET FROM Don Giovanni.)
BLOOM: Are you sure about that VOGLIO? I mean the pronunciati ...
(HE FOLLOWS, FOLLOWED BY THE SNIFFING TERRIER. THE ELDERLY BAWD SEIZES

HIS SLEEVE, THE BRISTLES OF HER CHINMOLE GLITTERING.)
Bloom then encounters Bridie Kelly and Gerty McDowell, among the other prostitutes, before Mrs. Breen appears, prompting the guilty Bloom to explain his presence in Nighttown. Meanwhile, several figures from the day--Denis Breen, Alf Bergen, Richie Goulding--pass by.
THE BAWD: Ten shillings a maidenhead. Fresh thing was never touched.

Fifteen. There's no-one in it only her old father that's dead drunk.
(SHE POINTS. IN THE GAP OF HER DARK DEN FURTIVE, RAINBEDRAGGLED, BRIDIE

KELLY STANDS.)
BRIDIE: Hatch street. Any good in your mind?
(WITH A SQUEAK SHE FLAPS HER BAT SHAWL AND RUNS. A BURLY ROUGH PURSUES

WITH BOOTED STRIDES. HE STUMBLES ON THE STEPS, RECOVERS, PLUNGES INTO

GLOOM. WEAK SQUEAKS OF LAUGHTER ARE HEARD, WEAKER.)
THE BAWD: (HER WOLFEYES SHINING) He's getting his pleasure. You won't get

a virgin in the flash houses. Ten shillings. Don't be all night before

the polis in plain clothes sees us. Sixtyseven is a bitch.
(LEERING, GERTY MACDOWELL LIMPS FORWARD. SHE DRAWS FROM BEHIND, OGLING,

AND SHOWS COYLY HER BLOODIED CLOUT.)
GERTY: With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. (SHE MURMURS) You did

that. I hate you.
BLOOM: I? When? You're dreaming. I never saw you.
THE BAWD: Leave the gentleman alone, you cheat. Writing the gentleman

false letters. Streetwalking and soliciting. Better for your mother take

the strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you.
GERTY: (TO BLOOM) When you saw all the secrets of my bottom drawer. (SHE

PAWS HIS SLEEVE, SLOBBERING) Dirty married man! I love you for doing that

to me.
(SHE GLIDES AWAY CROOKEDLY. MRS BREEN IN MAN'S FRIEZE OVERCOAT WITH LOOSE

BELLOWS POCKETS, STANDS IN THE CAUSEWAY, HER ROGUISH EYES WIDEOPEN,

SMILING IN ALL HER HERBIVOROUS BUCKTEETH.)
MRS BREEN: Mr ...
BLOOM: (COUGHS GRAVELY) Madam, when we last had this pleasure by letter

dated the sixteenth instant ...
MRS BREEN: Mr Bloom! You down here in the haunts of sin! I caught you

nicely! Scamp!
BLOOM: (HURRIEDLY) Not so loud my name. Whatever do you think of me?

Don't give me away. Walls have ears. How do you do? It's ages since I.

You're looking splendid. Absolutely it. Seasonable weather we are having

this time of year. Black refracts heat. Short cut home here. Interesting

quarter. Rescue of fallen women. Magdalen asylum. I am the secretary ...
MRS BREEN: (HOLDS UP A FINGER) Now, don't tell a big fib! I know somebody

won't like that. O just wait till I see Molly! (SLILY) Account for

yourself this very sminute or woe betide you!
BLOOM: (LOOKS BEHIND) She often said she'd like to visit. Slumming. The

exotic, you see. Negro servants in livery too if she had money. Othello

black brute. Eugene Stratton. Even the bones and cornerman at the

Livermore christies. Bohee brothers. Sweep for that matter.
(TOM AND SAM BOHEE, COLOURED COONS IN WHITE DUCK SUITS, SCARLET SOCKS,

UPSTARCHED SAMBO CHOKERS AND LARGE SCARLET ASTERS IN THEIR BUTTONHOLES,

LEAP OUT. EACH HAS HIS BANJO SLUNG. THEIR PALER SMALLER NEGROID HANDS

JINGLE THE TWINGTWANG WIRES. FLASHING WHITE KAFFIR EYES AND TUSKS THEY

RATTLE THROUGH A BREAKDOWN IN CLUMSY CLOGS, TWINGING, SINGING, BACK TO

BACK, TOE HEEL, HEEL TOE, WITH SMACKFATCLACKING NIGGER LIPS.)
TOM AND SAM:

There's someone in the house with Dina

There's someone in the house, I know,

There's someone in the house with Dina

Playing on the old banjo.

(THEY WHISK BLACK MASKS FROM RAW BABBY FACES: THEN, CHUCKLING, CHORTLING,

TRUMMING, TWANGING, THEY DIDDLE DIDDLE CAKEWALK DANCE AWAY.)
BLOOM: (WITH A SOUR TENDERISH SMILE) A little frivol, shall we, if you

are so inclined? Would you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a

fraction of a second?
MRS BREEN: (SCREAMS GAILY) O, you ruck! You ought to see yourself!
BLOOM: For old sake' sake. I only meant a square party, a mixed marriage

mingling of our different little conjugials. You know I had a soft corner

for you. (GLOOMILY) 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the dear gazelle.
MRS BREEN: Glory Alice, you do look a holy show! Killing simply. (SHE

PUTS OUT HER HAND INQUISITIVELY) What are you hiding behind your back?

Tell us, there's a dear.
BLOOM: (SEIZES HER WRIST WITH HIS FREE HAND) Josie Powell that was,

prettiest deb in Dublin. How time flies by! Do you remember, harking back

in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, Georgina Simpson's

housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the

pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Subject, what is in this snuffbox?
MRS BREEN: You were the lion of the night with your seriocomic recitation

and you looked the part. You were always a favourite with the ladies.
BLOOM: (SQUIRE OF DAMES, IN DINNER JACKET WITH WATEREDSILK FACINGS, BLUE

MASONIC BADGE IN HIS BUTTONHOLE, BLACK BOW AND MOTHER-OF-PEARL STUDS, A

PRISMATIC CHAMPAGNE GLASS TILTED IN HIS HAND) Ladies and gentlemen, I

give you Ireland, home and beauty.
MRS BREEN: The dear dead days beyond recall. Love's old sweet song.
BLOOM: (MEANINGFULLY DROPPING HIS VOICE) I confess I'm teapot with

curiosity to find out whether some person's something is a little teapot

at present.
MRS BREEN: (GUSHINGLY) Tremendously teapot! London's teapot and I'm

simply teapot all over me! (SHE RUBS SIDES WITH HIM) After the parlour

mystery games and the crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase

ottoman. Under the mistletoe. Two is company.
BLOOM: (WEARING A PURPLE NAPOLEON HAT WITH AN AMBER HALFMOON, HIS FINGERS

AND THUMB PASSING SLOWLY DOWN TO HER SOFT MOIST MEATY PALM WHICH SHE

SURRENDERS GENTLY) The witching hour of night. I took the splinter out of

this hand, carefully, slowly. (TENDERLY, AS HE SLIPS ON HER FINGER A RUBY

RING) LA CI DAREM LA MANO.
MRS BREEN: (IN A ONEPIECE EVENING FROCK EXECUTED IN MOONLIGHT BLUE, A

TINSEL SYLPH'S DIADEM ON HER BROW WITH HER DANCECARD FALLEN BESIDE HER

MOONBLUE SATIN SLIPPER, CURVES HER PALM SOFTLY, BREATHING QUICKLY) VOGLIO

E NON. You're hot! You're scalding! The left hand nearest the heart.
BLOOM: When you made your present choice they said it was beauty and the

beast. I can never forgive you for that. (HIS CLENCHED FIST AT HIS BROW)

Think what it means. All you meant to me then. (HOARSELY) Woman, it's

breaking me!
(DENIS BREEN, WHITETALLHATTED, WITH WISDOM HELY'S SANDWICH- BOARDS,

SHUFFLES PAST THEM IN CARPET SLIPPERS, HIS DULL BEARD THRUST OUT,

MUTTERING TO RIGHT AND LEFT. LITTLE ALF BERGAN, CLOAKED IN THE PALL OF

THE ACE OF SPADES, DOGS HIM TO LEFT AND RIGHT, DOUBLED IN LAUGHTER.)
ALF BERGAN: (POINTS JEERING AT THE SANDWICHBOARDS) U. p: Up.
MRS BREEN: (TO BLOOM) High jinks below stairs. (SHE GIVES HIM THE GLAD

EYE) Why didn't you kiss the spot to make it well? You wanted to.
BLOOM: (SHOCKED) Molly's best friend! Could you?
MRS BREEN: (HER PULPY TONGUE BETWEEN HER LIPS, OFFERS A PIGEON KISS)

Hnhn. The answer is a lemon. Have you a little present for me there?
BLOOM: (OFFHANDEDLY) Kosher. A snack for supper. The home without potted

meat is incomplete. I was at LEAH. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Trenchant

exponent of Shakespeare. Unfortunately threw away the programme. Rattling

good place round there for pigs' feet. Feel.
(RICHIE GOULDING, THREE LADIES' HATS PINNED ON HIS HEAD, APPEARS WEIGHTED

TO ONE SIDE BY THE BLACK LEGAL BAG OF COLLIS AND WARD ON WHICH A SKULL

AND CROSSBONES ARE PAINTED IN WHITE LIMEWASH. HE OPENS IT AND SHOWS IT

FULL OF POLONIES, KIPPERED HERRINGS, FINDON HADDIES AND TIGHTPACKED

PILLS.)
RICHIE: Best value in Dub.
(BALD PAT, BOTHERED BEETLE, STANDS ON THE CURBSTONE, FOLDING HIS NAPKIN,

WAITING TO WAIT.)
PAT: (ADVANCES WITH A TILTED DISH OF SPILLSPILLING GRAVY) Steak and

kidney. Bottle of lager. Hee hee hee. Wait till I wait.
RICHIE: Goodgod. Inev erate inall ...
(WITH HANGING HEAD HE MARCHES DOGGEDLY FORWARD. THE NAVVY, LURCHING BY,

GORES HIM WITH HIS FLAMING PRONGHORN.)
RICHIE: (WITH A CRY OF PAIN, HIS HAND TO HIS BACK) Ah! Bright's! Lights!
BLOOM: (POINTS TO THE NAVVY) A spy. Don't attract attention. I hate

stupid crowds. I am not on pleasure bent. I am in a grave predicament.
MRS BREEN: Humbugging and deluthering as per usual with your cock and

bull story.
BLOOM: I want to tell you a little secret about how I came to be here.

But you must never tell. Not even Molly. I have a most particular reason.
MRS BREEN: (ALL AGOG) O, not for worlds.
BLOOM: Let's walk on. Shall us?
MRS BREEN: Let's.
(THE BAWD MAKES AN UNHEEDED SIGN. BLOOM WALKS ON WITH MRS BREEN. THE

TERRIER FOLLOWS, WHINING PITEOUSLY, WAGGING HIS TAIL.)
THE BAWD: Jewman's melt!
BLOOM: (IN AN OATMEAL SPORTING SUIT, A SPRIG OF WOODBINE IN THE LAPEL,

TONY BUFF SHIRT, SHEPHERD'S PLAID SAINT ANDREW'S CROSS SCARFTIE, WHITE

SPATS, FAWN DUSTCOAT ON HIS ARM, TAWNY RED BROGUES, FIELDGLASSES IN

BANDOLIER AND A GREY BILLYCOCK HAT) Do you remember a long long time,

years and years ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called her, was

weaned when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was it?
MRS BREEN: (IN SMART SAXE TAILORMADE, WHITE VELOURS HAT AND SPIDER VEIL)

Leopardstown.
BLOOM: I mean, Leopardstown. And Molly won seven shillings on a three

year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old

fiveseater shanderadan of a waggonette you were in your heyday then and

you had on that new hat of white velours with a surround of molefur that

Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was marked down to nineteen and

eleven, a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and I'll lay you what

you like she did it on purpose ...
MRS BREEN: She did, of course, the cat! Don't tell me! Nice adviser!
BLOOM: Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the other ducky

little tammy toque with the bird of paradise wing in it that I admired on

you and you honestly looked just too fetching in it though it was a pity

to kill it, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a thing with a

heart the size of a fullstop.
MRS BREEN: (SQUEEZES HIS ARM, SIMPERS) Naughty cruel I was!
BLOOM: (LOW, SECRETLY, EVER MORE RAPIDLY) And Molly was eating a sandwich

of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. Frankly, though

she had her advisers or admirers, I never cared much for her style. She

was ...
MRS BREEN: Too ...
BLOOM: Yes. And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly

were mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses,

the tea merchant, drove past us in a gig with his daughter, Dancer Moses

was her name, and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I

ever heard or read or knew or came across ...
MRS BREEN: (EAGERLY) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
(SHE FADES FROM HIS SIDE. FOLLOWED BY THE WHINING DOG HE WALKS ON TOWARDS

HELLSGATES. IN AN ARCHWAY A STANDING WOMAN, BENT FORWARD, HER FEET APART,

PISSES COWILY. OUTSIDE A SHUTTERED PUB A BUNCH OF LOITERERS LISTEN TO A

TALE WHICH THEIR BROKENSNOUTED GAFFER RASPS OUT WITH RAUCOUS HUMOUR. AN

ARMLESS PAIR OF THEM FLOP WRESTLING, GROWLING, IN MAIMED SODDEN

PLAYFIGHT.)
THE GAFFER: (CROUCHES, HIS VOICE TWISTED IN HIS SNOUT) And when Cairns

came down from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was he after doing

it into only into the bucket of porter that was there waiting on the

shavings for Derwan's plasterers.
THE LOITERERS: (GUFFAW WITH CLEFT PALATES) O jays!
(THEIR PAINTSPECKLED HATS WAG. SPATTERED WITH SIZE AND LIME OF THEIR

LODGES THEY FRISK LIMBLESSLY ABOUT HIM.)
BLOOM: Coincidence too. They think it funny. Anything but that. Broad

daylight. Trying to walk. Lucky no woman.
THE LOITERERS: Jays, that's a good one. Glauber salts. O jays, into the

men's porter.
(BLOOM PASSES. CHEAP WHORES, SINGLY, COUPLED, SHAWLED, DISHEVELLED, CALL

FROM LANES, DOORS, CORNERS.)
THE WHORES:
Are you going far, queer fellow?

How's your middle leg?

Got a match on you?

Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you.
(HE PLODGES THROUGH THEIR SUMP TOWARDS THE LIGHTED STREET BEYOND. FROM A

BULGE OF WINDOW CURTAINS A GRAMOPHONE REARS A BATTERED BRAZEN TRUNK. IN

THE SHADOW A SHEBEENKEEPER HAGGLES WITH THE NAVVY AND THE TWO REDCOATS.)
THE NAVVY: (BELCHING) Where's the bloody house?
THE SHEBEENKEEPER: Purdon street. Shilling a bottle of stout. Respectable

woman.
THE NAVVY: (GRIPPING THE TWO REDCOATS, STAGGERS FORWARD WITH THEM) Come

on, you British army!
PRIVATE CARR: (BEHIND HIS BACK) He aint half balmy.
PRIVATE COMPTON: (LAUGHS) What ho!
PRIVATE CARR: (TO THE NAVVY) Portobello barracks canteen. You ask for

Carr. Just Carr.
THE NAVVY: (SHOUTS)
We are the boys. Of Wexford.
PRIVATE COMPTON: Say! What price the sergeantmajor?
PRIVATE CARR: Bennett? He's my pal. I love old Bennett.
THE NAVVY: (SHOUTS)
The galling chain.

And free our native land.
(HE STAGGERS FORWARD, DRAGGING THEM WITH HIM. BLOOM STOPS, AT FAULT. THE

DOG APPROACHES, HIS TONGUE OUTLOLLING, PANTING)


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