then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he
bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my
tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.
In Westland row he halted before the window of the
Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read the legends of
leadpapered packets: choice blend, finest quality, family
tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom Kernan.
Couldn’t ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still
read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil
and sent his right hand with slow grace over his brow and
hair. Very warm morning. Under their dropped lids his
eyes found the tiny bow of the leather headband inside his
high grade ha. Just there. His right hand came down into
the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card
behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat
So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went
over his brow and hair. Then he put on his hat again,
relieved: and read again: choice blend, made of the finest
Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must be: the
garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on,
cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them.
Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in
the sun in dolce far niente, not doing a hand’s turn all day.
Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel.
Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness.
The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens.
Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping
sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to
eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that
picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his
back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn’t sink if
you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of the
water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to
the weight of the what? Or is it the volume is equal to the
weight? It’s a law something like that. Vance in High
school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college
curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really
when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second per
second. Law of falling bodies: per second per second.
They all fall to the ground. The earth. It’s the force of
gravity of the earth is the weight.
He turned away and sauntered across the road. How
did she walk with her sausages? Like that something. As he
walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket,
unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at
each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air: just
drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for
every second it means. From the curbstone he darted a
keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late
box. Post here. No-one. In.
He handed the card through the brass grill.
—Are there any letters for me? he asked.
While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed
at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade:
and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling
freshprinted rag paper. No answer probably. Went too far
The postmistress handed him back through the grill his
card with a letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at
the typed envelope.
Henry Flower Esq,
c/o P. O. Westland Row,
Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his
sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade.
Where’s old Tweedy’s regiment? Castoff soldier. There:
bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he’s a grenadier.
Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers.
Redcoats. Too showy. That must be why the women go
after them. Uniform. Easier to enlist and drill. Maud
Gonne’s letter about taking them off O’Connell street at
night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith’s paper is on
the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease:
overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look:
hypnotised like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able. Bed:
ed. The King’s own. Never see him dressed up as a
fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.
He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the
right. Talk: as if that would mend matters. His hand went
into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap
of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women will pay
a lot of heed, I don’t think. His fingers drew forth the
letter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket.
Something pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.
M’Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my
way. Hate company when you.
—Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?
—Hello, M’Coy. Nowhere in particular.
—How’s the body?
—Fine. How are you?
—Just keeping alive, M’Coy said.
His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low
—Is there any ... no trouble I hope? I see you’re ...
—O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know.
The funeral is today.
—To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?
A photo it isn’t. A badge maybe.
—E ... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.
—I must try to get out there, M’Coy said. Eleven, is it?
I only heard it last night. Who was telling me? Holohan.
You know Hoppy?
Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn
up before the door of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted
the valise up on the well. She stood still, waiting, while
the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets
for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm
for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of
her with her hands in those patch pockets. Like that
haughty creature at the polo match. Women all for caste
till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome does.
Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus
is an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch out
—I was with Bob Doran, he’s on one of his periodical
bends, and what do you call him Bantam Lyons. Just
down there in Conway’s we were.
Doran Lyons in Conway’s. She raised a gloved hand to
her hair. In came Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his
head and gazing far from beneath his vailed eyelids he saw
the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the braided drums.
Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight
perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady’s hand.
Which side will she get up?
—And he said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy!
What Paddy? I said. Poor little Paddy Dignam, he said.
Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown
boots with laces dangling. Wellturned foot. What is he
foostering over that change for? Sees me looking. Eye out
for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two strings to her
—Why? I said. What’s wrong with him? I said.
Proud: rich: silk stockings.
—Yes, Mr Bloom said.
He moved a little to the side of M’Coy’s talking head.
Getting up in a minute.
—What’s wrong with him? He said. He’s dead, he said.
And, faith, he filled up. Is it Paddy Dignam? I said. I
couldn’t believe it when I heard it. I was with him no
later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch. Yes,
he said. He’s gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow. Watch!
Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!
A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.
Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of
it. Paradise and the peri. Always happening like that. The
very moment. Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was
it settling her garter. Her friend covering the display of.
esprit de corps. Well, what are you gaping at?
—Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another
—One of the best, M’Coy said.
The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop
Line bridge, her rich gloved hand on the steel grip.
Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her hat in the sun: flicker,
—Wife well, I suppose? M’Coy’s changed voice said.
—O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.
He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:
With it an abode of bliss.
—My missus has just got an engagement. At least it’s
not settled yet.
Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I’m off that,
Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty
—My wife too, he said. She’s going to sing at a
swagger affair in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the twenty-
—That so? M’Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man.
Who’s getting it up?
Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her
bedroom eating bread and. No book. Blackened court
cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady and fair
man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.
Comes lo-ove’s old ...
—It’s a kind of a tour, don’t you see, Mr Bloom said
thoughtfully. Sweeeet song. There’s a committee formed.
Part shares and part profits.
M’Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.
—O, well, he said. That’s good news.
He moved to go.
—Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you
—Yes, Mr Bloom said.
—Tell you what, M’Coy said. You might put down
my name at the funeral, will you? I’d like to go but I
mightn’t be able, you see. There’s a drowning case at
Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself
would have to go down if the body is found. You just
shove in my name if I’m not there, will you?
—I’ll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off.
That’ll be all right.
—Right, M’Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I’d go
if I possibly could. Well, tolloll. Just C. P. M’Coy will do.
—That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.
Didn’t catch me napping that wheeze. The quick
touch. Soft mark. I’d like my job. Valise I have a particular
fancy for. Leather. Capped corners, rivetted edges, double
action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him his for the
Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings
of it from that good day to this.
Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled.
My missus has just got an. Reedy freckled soprano.
Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its way: for a little
ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don’t you know: in the
Documents you may be interested
Documents you may be interested