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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Simon is informed that the blind piano tuner had been in that afternoon. Bloom, in Daly’s buys his stationary and sees Boylan for the third time heading to the Ormond. Bloom decides to risk it and go there as well.
Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I was

in Wisdom Hely's wise Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower bought. Are you not

happy in your home? Flower to console me and a pin cuts lo. Means

something, language of flow. Was it a daisy? Innocence that is.

Respectable girl meet after mass. Thanks awfully muchly. Wise Bloom eyed

on the door a poster, a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves. Smoke

mermaids, coolest whiff of all. Hair streaming: lovelorn. For some man.

For Raoul. He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hat riding on a

jaunting car. It is. Again. Third time. Coincidence.
Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the bridge to Ormond

quay. Follow. Risk it. Go quick. At four. Near now. Out.
--Twopence, sir, the shopgirl dared to say.
--Aha ... I was forgetting ... Excuse ...
--And four.
At four she. Winsomely she on Bloohimwhom smiled. Bloo smi qui

go. Ternoon. Think you're the only pebble on the beach? Does that to all.
For men.
In drowsy silence gold bent on her page.
From the saloon a call came, long in dying. That was a tuningfork the

tuner had that he forgot that he now struck. A call again. That he now

poised that it now throbbed. You hear? It throbbed, pure, purer, softly

and softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call.
Pat paid for diner's popcorked bottle: and over tumbler, tray and

popcorked bottle ere he went he whispered, bald and bothered, with Miss
A voiceless song sang from within, singing:
A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive

hands. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording,

called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love's

leavetaking, life's, love's morn.
Lenehan's lips over the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy.
--But look this way, he said, rose of Castile.
Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped.
She rose and closed her reading, rose of Castile: fretted, forlorn,

dreamily rose.
--Did she fall or was she pushed? he asked her.
She answered, slighting:
--Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies.
Like lady, ladylike.
The tuning fork left behind is discovered. Boylan arrives.
Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor where he

strode. Yes, gold from anear by bronze from afar. Lenehan heard and knew

and hailed him:
--See the conquering hero comes.
Between the car and window, warily walking, went Bloom,

unconquered hero. See me he might. The seat he sat on: warm. Black wary

hecat walked towards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting.
--I heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan.
He touched to fair miss Kennedy a rim of his slanted straw. She

smiled on him. But sister bronze outsmiled her, preening for him her

richer hair, a bosom and a rose.
Smart Boylan bespoke potions.
--What's your cry? Glass of bitter? Glass of bitter, please, and a sloegin

for me. Wire in yet?
Not yet. At four she. Who said four?
Bloom meets Richie Goulding and they go into the dining room.
Cowley's red lugs and bulging apple in the door of the sheriff's office.
Avoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing in the Ormond? Car waiting.
Hello. Where off to? Something to eat? I too was just. In here. What,

Ormond? Best value in Dublin. Is that so? Diningroom. Sit tight there.

See, not be seen. I think I'll join you. Come on. Richie led on. Bloom

followed bag. Dinner fit for a prince.
Miss Douce reached high to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm,

her bust, that all but burst, so high.
--O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. O!
But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.
--Why don't you grow? asked Blazes Boylan.
Shebronze, dealing from her oblique jar thick syrupy liquor for his

lips, looked as it flowed (flower in his coat: who gave him?), and

syrupped with her voice:
--Fine goods in small parcels.
That is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe.
--Here's fortune, Blazes said.
He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang.
--Hold on, said Lenehan, till I ...
--Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale.
--Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.
--I plunged a bit, said Boylan winking and drinking. Not on my own, you

know. Fancy of a friend of mine.
Lenehan still drank and grinned at his tilted ale and at miss Douce's

lips that all but hummed, not shut, the oceansong her lips had trilled.
Idolores. The eastern seas.
Clock whirred. Miss Kennedy passed their way (flower, wonder who

gave), bearing away teatray. Clock clacked.
Miss Douce took Boylan's coin, struck boldly the cashregister. It

clanged. Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted in the till

and hummed and handed coins in change. Look to the west. A clack. For me.
--What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four?
Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her humming, bust ahumming,

tugged Blazes Boylan's elbowsleeve.
--Let's hear the time, he said.
As Boylan has his sloe gin, tells Lenehan he has backed Sceptre, and checks the time (4.00pm), Bloom sits down with Richie in the nearby diningroom.
The bag of Goulding, Collis, Ward led Bloom by ryebloom flowered

tables. Aimless he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a table

near the door. Be near. At four. Has he forgotten? Perhaps a trick. Not

come: whet appetite. I couldn't do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited.
Lenehan convinces Miss Douce to snap her garter. Boylan leaves with Lenehan following.
Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skyblue bow and eyes.
--Go on, pressed Lenehan. There's no-one. He never heard.
High, a high note pealed in the treble clear.
Bronzedouce communing with her rose that sank and rose sought
Blazes Boylan's flower and eyes.
--Please, please.
He pleaded over returning phrases of avowal.
--Afterwits, miss Douce promised coyly.
--No, now, urged Lenehan. SONNEZLACLOCHE! O do! There's no-one.
She looked. Quick. Miss Kenn out of earshot. Sudden bent. Two

kindling faces watched her bend.
Quavering the chords strayed from the air, found it again, lost chord,

and lost and found it, faltering.
--Go on! Do! SONNEZ!
Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. Delayed. Taunted

them still, bending, suspending, with wilful eyes.
Smack. She set free sudden in rebound her nipped elastic garter

smackwarm against her smackable a woman's warmhosed thigh.
--LA CLOCHE! cried gleeful Lenehan. Trained by owner. No sawdust there.
She smilesmirked supercilious (wept! aren't men?), but, lightward

gliding, mild she smiled on Boylan.
--You're the essence of vulgarity, she in gliding said.
Boylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drank off his chalice

tiny, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops. His spellbound eyes went

after, after her gliding head as it went down the bar by mirrors, gilded

arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmering, a spiky shell,

where it concerted, mirrored, bronze with sunnier bronze.
Yes, bronze from anearby.
--I'm off, said Boylan with impatience.
He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change.
--Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, drinking quickly. I wanted to tell you.
Tom Rochford ...
--Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan, going.
Lenehan gulped to go.
--Got the horn or what? he said. Wait. I'm coming.
He followed the hasty creaking shoes but stood by nimbly by the

threshold, saluting forms, a bulky with a slender.
Richie orders Irish whiskey and Bloom cider. Dollard and “Father” Cowley enter and they gather around the piano. Bloom hears Boylan depart.
--How do you do, Mr Dollard?
--Eh? How do? How do? Ben Dollard's vague bass answered, turning an

instant from Father Cowley's woe. He won't give you any trouble, Bob. Alf

Bergan will speak to the long fellow. We'll put a barleystraw in that

Judas Iscariot's ear this time.
Sighing Mr Dedalus came through the saloon, a finger soothing an

--Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard yodled jollily. Come on, Simon. Give us a

ditty. We heard the piano.
Bald Pat, bothered waiter, waited for drink orders. Power for Richie.

And Bloom? Let me see. Not make him walk twice. His corns. Four now.

How warm this black is. Course nerves a bit. Refracts (is it?) heat. Let

me see. Cider. Yes, bottle of cider.
--What's that? Mr Dedalus said. I was only vamping, man.
--Come on, come on, Ben Dollard called. Begone dull care. Come, Bob.
He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before them (hold that fellow with

the: hold him now) into the saloon. He plumped him Dollard on the stool.

His gouty paws plumped chords. Plumped, stopped abrupt.
Bald Pat in the doorway met tealess gold returning. Bothered, he

wanted Power and cider. Bronze by the window, watched, bronze from

Jingle a tinkle jaunted.
Bloom heard a jing, a little sound. He's off. Light sob of breath Bloom

sighed on the silent bluehued flowers. Jingling. He's gone. Jingle. Hear.
Simon, Cowley, and Dollard recall when Dollard needed a formal suit and got one from the Bloomes, who were “on the rocks” in Holles St., collecting and selling secondhand clothes and theatrical costumes.
--Love and War, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. God be with old times.
Miss Douce's brave eyes, unregarded, turned from the crossblind,

smitten by sunlight. Gone. Pensive (who knows?), smitten (the smiting

light), she lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord. She drew down

pensive (why did he go so quick when I?) about her bronze, over the bar

where bald stood by sister gold, inexquisite contrast, contrast

inexquisite nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of shadow,

--Poor old Goodwin was the pianist that night, Father Cowley reminded

them. There was a slight difference of opinion between himself and the

Collard grand.
There was.
--A symposium all his own, Mr Dedalus said. The devil wouldn't stop him.

He was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stage of drink.
--God, do you remember? Ben bulky Dollard said, turning from the

punished keyboard. And by Japers I had no wedding garment.
They laughed all three. He had no wed. All trio laughed. No wedding

--Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Mr Dedalus said. Where's

my pipe, by the way?
He wandered back to the bar to the lost chord pipe. Bald Pat carried

two diners' drinks, Richie and Poldy. And Father Cowley laughed again.
--I saved the situation, Ben, I think.
--You did, averred Ben Dollard. I remember those tight trousers too. That

was a brilliant idea, Bob.
Father Cowley blushed to his brilliant purply lobes. He saved the

situa. Tight trou. Brilliant ide.
--I knew he was on the rocks, he said. The wife was playing the piano in

the coffee palace on Saturdays for a very trifling consideration and who

was it gave me the wheeze she was doing the other business? Do you

remember? We had to search all Holles street to find them till the chap in

Keogh's gave us the number. Remember? Ben remembered, his broad visage

--By God, she had some luxurious operacloaks and things there.
Mr Dedalus wandered back, pipe in hand.
--Merrion square style. Balldresses, by God, and court dresses. He

wouldn't take any money either. What? Any God's quantity of cocked hats

and boleros and trunkhose. What?
--Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded. Mrs Marion Bloom has left off clothes of all

Jingle jaunted down the quays. Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres.
Bloom orders liver and bacon; Richie steak and kidney pie.
Liver and bacon. Steak and kidney pie. Right, sir. Right, Pat.
Mrs Marion. Met him pike hoses. Smell of burn. Of Paul de Kock. Nice

name he.
--What's this her name was? A buxom lassy. Marion ...
--Yes. Is she alive?
--And kicking.
--She was a daughter of ...
--Daughter of the regiment.
--Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor.
Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after
--Irish? I don't know, faith. Is she, Simon?
Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling.
--Buccinator muscle is ... What? ... Bit rusty ... O, she is ... My

Irish Molly, O.
He puffed a pungent plumy blast.
--From the rock of Gibraltar... all the way.
They pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold by the beerpull, bronze by

maraschino, thoughtful all two. Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace,

Drumcondra with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent.
Pat served, uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said before he

ate with relish the inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods' roes while

Richie Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and kidney, steak then kidney,

bite by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate.
Bloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate. Dinners fit for princes.
By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, bachelor, in sun

in heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with flick of whip, on bounding tyres:

sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Horn. Have you

the? Horn. Have you the? Haw haw horn.
Dollard sings “Love and War.” A duet in which he sings the wrong part to which Cowley says “War! War! . . . You’re the warrior.”
Over their voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming over bombarding

Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery roofpanes.
--War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior.
--So I am, Ben Warrior laughed. I was thinking of your landlord. Love or

He stopped. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge.
--Sure, you'd burst the tympanum of her ear, man, Mr Dedalus said

through smoke aroma, with an organ like yours.
In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the keyboard. He

--Not to mention another membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time,

Ben. AMOROSO MA NON TROPPO. Let me there.
Miss Kennedy served two gentlemen with tankards of cool stout. She

passed a remark. It was indeed, first gentleman said, beautiful weather.

They drank cool stout. Did she know where the lord lieutenant was going?

And heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. No, she couldn't say. But it would be

in the paper. O, she need not trouble. No trouble. She waved about her

outspread INDEPENDENT, searching, the lord lieutenant, her pinnacles of

hair slowmoving, lord lieuten. Too much trouble, first gentleman said. O,

not in the least. Way he looked that. Lord lieutenant. Gold by bronze

heard iron steel.
-- ............ MY ARDENT SOUL

In liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. Love and War

someone is. Ben Dollard's famous. Night he ran round to us to borrow a

dress suit for that concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him. Musical

porkers. Molly did laugh when he went out. Threw herself back across the

bed, screaming, kicking. With all his belongings on show. O saints above,

I'm drenched! O, the women in the front row! O, I never laughed so many!

Well, of course that's what gives him the base barreltone. For instance

eunuchs. Wonder who's playing. Nice touch. Must be Cowley. Musical.

Knows whatever note you play. Bad breath he has, poor chap. Stopped.
George Lidwell, solicitor enters and flirts with Miss Douce. Simon is urged to sing “M’appari.” Richie praises the tenor air from Sonnambula, whistling “All Is Lost.”
Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, George

Lidwell, gentleman, entering. Good afternoon. She gave her moist

(a lady's) hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon. Yes, she was back. To the

old dingdong again.
--Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.
George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.
Bloom ate liv as said before. Clean here at least. That chap in the

Burton, gummy with gristle. No-one here: Goulding and I. Clean tables,

flowers, mitres of napkins. Pat to and fro. Bald Pat. Nothing to do. Best

value in Dub.
Piano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits in to it, like one together,

mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles, eye on the

bowend, sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. Her high long snore.

Night we were in the box. Trombone under blowing like a grampus,

between the acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle.

Conductor's legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide

Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.
Only the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of

a lovely. Gravy's rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that

once or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their

harps. I. He. Old. Young.
--Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.
--Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in bits.
--M'APPARI, Simon, Father Cowley said.
Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his long

arms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his throat hoarsed softly. Softly he

sang to a dusty seascape there: A LAST FAREWELL. A headland, a ship, a

sail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the

wind upon the headland, wind around her.
Cowley sang:



She waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil, to one departing, dear one, to

wind, love, speeding sail, return.
--Go on, Simon.
--Ah, sure, my dancing days are done, Ben ... Well ...
Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside the tuningfork and, sitting,

touched the obedient keys.
--No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original. One flat.
The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused.
Up stage strode Father Cowley.
--Here, Simon, I'll accompany you, he said. Get up.
By Graham Lemon's pineapple rock, by Elvery's elephant jingly

jogged. Steak, kidney, liver, mashed, at meat fit for princes sat princes

Bloom and Goulding. Princes at meat they raised and drank, Power and

Most beautiful tenor air ever written, Richie said: SONNAMBULA. He

heard Joe Maas sing that one night. Ah, what M'Guckin! Yes. In his way.

Choirboy style. Maas was the boy. Massboy. A lyrical tenor if you like.

Never forget it. Never.
Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the tightened features strain.

Backache he. Bright's bright eye. Next item on the programme. Paying the

piper. Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. Stave it off awhile.

Sings too: DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN. Appropriate. Kidney pie. Sweets to

the. Not making much hand of it. Best value in. Characteristic of him.

Power. Particular about his drink. Flaw in the glass, fresh Vartry water.

Fecking matches from counters to save. Then squander a sovereign in dribs

and drabs. And when he's wanted not a farthing. Screwed refusing to pay

his fare. Curious types.
Never would Richie forget that night. As long as he lived: never. In

the gods of the old Royal with little Peake. And when the first note.
Speech paused on Richie's lips.
Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies about damn all.
Believes his own lies. Does really. Wonderful liar. But want a good

--Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.
Richie cocked his lips apout. A low incipient note sweet banshee murmured:

all. A thrush. A throstle. His breath, birdsweet, good teeth he's

proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound. Two notes in one

there. Blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking my motives he

twined and turned them. All most too new call is lost in all. Echo. How

sweet the answer. How is that done? All lost now. Mournful he whistled.

Fall, surrender, lost.
Bloom bent leopold ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the

vase. Order. Yes, I remember. Lovely air. In sleep she went to him.

Innocence in the moon. Brave. Don't know their danger. Still hold her

back. Call name. Touch water. Jingle jaunty. Too late. She longed to go.

That's why. Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost.
--A beautiful air, said Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well.
Never in all his life had Richie Goulding.
He knows it well too. Or he feels. Still harping on his daughter. Wise

child that knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?
Bloom askance over liverless saw. Face of the all is lost. Rollicking

Richie once. Jokes old stale now. Wagging his ear. Napkinring in his eye.

Now begging letters he sends his son with. Crosseyed Walter sir I did sir.

Wouldn't trouble only I was expecting some money. Apologise.
Piano again. Sounds better than last time I heard. Tuned probably.

Stopped again.
Dollard and Cowley still urged the lingering singer out with it.
--With it, Simon.
--It, Simon.
--Ladies and gentlemen, I am most deeply obliged by your kind

--It, Simon.
--I have no money but if you will lend me your attention I shall endeavour

to sing to you of a heart bowed down.
By the sandwichbell in screening shadow Lydia, her bronze and rose,

a lady's grace, gave and withheld: as in cool glaucous EAU DE NIL Mina

to tankards two her pinnacles of gold.
The harping chords of prelude closed. A chord, longdrawn, expectant,

drew a voice away.
Richie turned.
--Si Dedalus' voice, he said.
Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, they listened feeling that flow

endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. Bloom signed to

Pat, bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing, to set ajar the door of the

bar. The door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited, waiting

to hear, for he was hard of hear by the door.
Through the hush of air a voice sang to them, low, not rain, not leaves

in murmur, like no voice of strings or reeds or whatdoyoucallthem

dulcimers touching their still ears with words, still hearts of their each

his remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow from them each seemed to

from both depart when first they heard. When first they saw, lost Richie

Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn't expect it in the

least, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word.

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