No More Learning

Flea having a good square meal.

--He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, over that
boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the Portobello
barracks. By God, he had the little kipper down in the county Carlow he
was telling me. . .

Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it up.

--For near a month, man, before it came off. Sucking duck eggs by God
till further orders. Keep him off the boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is a
hairy chap.

Davy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves,
cleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin. Herring's blush. Whose
smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete. Too much fat
on the parsnips.

--And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you give
us a good one for the Gold cup?

--I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on a
horse.

--You're right there, Nosey Flynn said.

Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of
disgust pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese. Sips of his
wine soothed his palate. Not logwood that. Tastes fuller this weather
with the chill off.

Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. Like
the way it curves there.

--I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined
many a man, the same horses.

Vintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits
for consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails you lose.

--True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're in the know. There's
no straight sport going now. Lenehan gets some good ones. He's giving
Sceptre today. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's, won
at Epsom. Morny Cannon is riding him. I could have got seven to one
against Saint Amant a fortnight before.

--That so? Davy Byrne said. . .

He went towards the window and, taking up the pettycash book, scanned
its pages.

--I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. That was a rare bit of
horseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her sire. She won in a thunderstorm,
Rothschild's filly, with wadding in her ears. Blue jacket and yellow
cap. Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his John O'Gaunt. He put me off it.
Ay.

He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the
flutes.

--Ay, he said, sighing.

Mr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his sigh. Nosey numbskull.
Will I tell him that horse Lenehan? He knows already. Better let him
forget. Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down again.
Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman. Still they might like. Prickly
beards they like. Dogs' cold noses. Old Mrs Riordan with the rumbling
stomach's Skye terrier in the City Arms hotel. Molly fondling him in her
lap. O, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish
cheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Bath
of course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about six o'clock I can.
Six. Six. Time will be gone then. She. . .

Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so
off colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy
lobsters' claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of
shells, periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the
French eat, out of the sea with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing
in a thousand years. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your
mouth. Poisonous berries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good.
Gaudy colour warns you off. One fellow told another and so on. Try it
on the dog first. Led on by the smell or the look. Tempting fruit.
Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial
irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about oysters. Unsightly like
a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them too. Who found them
out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank oysters. Effect
on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this morning. Was he
oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has
no ar no oysters. But there are people like things high. Tainted game.
Jugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years old,
blue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless might
mix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That archduke Leopold was it no
yes or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs? Or who was it used to eat the
scruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch in town. Of course aristocrats,
then the others copy to be in the fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour.
Raw pastry I like myself. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in
the sea to keep up the price. Cheap no-one would buy. Caviare. Do the
grand. Hock in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom
pearls. The _elite. Creme de la creme_. They want special dishes to
pretend they're. Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings
of the flesh. Know me come eat with me. Royal sturgeon high sheriff,
Coffey, the butcher, right to venisons of the forest from his ex. Send
him back the half of a cow. Spread I saw down in the Master of the
Rolls' kitchen area. Whitehatted _chef_ like a rabbi. Combustible duck.
Curly cabbage _a la duchesse de Parme_. Just as well to write it on the
bill of fare so you can know what you've eaten. Too many drugs spoil the
broth. I know it myself. Dosing it with Edwards' desiccated soup. Geese
stuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive. Do ptake some ptarmigan.
Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips, evening dress,
halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted lemon sole,
miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expect
that. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I remember. _Du, de la_ French.
Still it's the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped
the guts out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills
can't write his name on a cheque think he was painting the landscape
with his mouth twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a kish of
brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds.

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress
grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me
memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns
on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple
by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton.
Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities.
Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub
my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with
ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn
away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth.
Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed.
Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate
it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft warm sticky
gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles
fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a
nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns
she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips,
her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's
veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was
kissed.
All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

His downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the oaken slab. Beauty:
it curves: curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the
world admires. Can see them library museum standing in the round hall,
naked goddesses. Aids to digestion. They don't care what man looks. All
to see. Never speaking. I mean to say to fellows like Flynn. Suppose she
did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Mortal! Put you in
your proper place. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods golden dishes, all
ambrosial. Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton, carrots and
turnips, bottle of Allsop. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods'
food. Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely. And we
stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung,
earth, food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. They have no. Never
looked. I'll look today. Keeper won't see. Bend down let something drop
see if she.

Dribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to
do there to do. A man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and
walked, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men
lovers, a youth enjoyed her, to the yard.

When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book:

--What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line?

--He's out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for
the _Freeman. _

--I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble?

--Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why?

--I noticed he was in mourning.

--Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all at
home. You're right, by God. So he was.

--I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely, if I see a
gentleman is in trouble that way. It only brings it up fresh in their
minds.

--It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before
yesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's
wife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home
to his better half. She's well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast.

--And is he doing for the _Freeman? _ Davy Byrne said.

Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.

---He doesn't buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon of
that.

--How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book.

Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He
winked.

--He's in the craft, he said.

---Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.

--Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Ancient free and accepted order. He's
an excellent brother. Light, life and love, by God. They give him a leg
up. I was told that by a--well, I won't say who.

--Is that a fact?

--O, it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said. They stick to you when you're
down. I know a fellow was trying to get into it. But they're as close as
damn it. By God they did right to keep the women out of it.

Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one:

--Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!

--There was one woman, Nosey Flynn said, hid herself in a clock to find
out what they do be doing. But be damned but they smelt her out and
swore her in on the spot a master mason. That was one of the saint
Legers of Doneraile.

Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes:

--And is that a fact? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw him in here
and I never once saw him--you know, over the line.

--God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Slips
off when the fun gets too hot. Didn't you see him look at his watch? Ah,
you weren't there. If you ask him to have a drink first thing he does
he outs with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe. Declare to God he
does.

--There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He's a safe man, I'd say.

--He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He's been known
to put his hand down too to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O,
Bloom has his good points. But there's one thing he'll never do.

His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog.

--I know, Davy Byrne said.

--Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said.

Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed frowning,
a plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.

--Day, Mr Byrne.

--Day, gentlemen.

They paused at the counter.

--Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked.

--I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered.

--Well, what'll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.

--I'll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said.

--How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for God' sake? What's
yours, Tom?

--How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.

For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and
hiccupped.

--Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.

--Certainly, sir.

Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.

--Lord love a duck, he said. Look at what I'm standing drinks to! Cold
water and gingerpop! Two fellows that would suck whisky off a sore leg.
He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold cup. A dead snip.

--Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.

Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set before
him.

--That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking.

--Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said.

Tom Rochford nodded and drank.

--Is it Zinfandel?

--Say nothing! Bantam Lyons winked. I'm going to plunge five bob on my
own.

--Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard
said. Who gave it to you?

Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting.

--So long! Nosey Flynn said.

The others turned.

--That's the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered.

--Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll take two
of your small Jamesons after that and a. . .

--Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.

--Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the baby.

Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his tongue brushing his teeth
smooth. Something green it would have to be: spinach, say. Then with
those Rontgen rays searchlight you could.

At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the
cobblestones and lapped it with new zest. Surfeit. Returned with thanks
having fully digested the contents. First sweet then savoury. Mr Bloom
coasted warily. Ruminants. His second course. Their upper jaw they move.
Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything with that invention of his?
Wasting time explaining it to Flynn's mouth. Lean people long mouths.
Ought to be a hall or a place where inventors could go in and invent
free. Course then you'd have all the cranks pestering.

He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the bars:

_Don Giovanni, a cenar teco M'invitasti. _

Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some chap
in the blues. Dutch courage. That _Kilkenny People_ in the national
library now I must.

Bare clean closestools waiting in the window of William Miller, plumber,
turned back his thoughts. They could: and watch it all the way down,
swallow a pin sometimes come out of the ribs years after, tour round the
body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of
intestines like pipes. But the poor buffer would have to stand all the
time with his insides entrails on show. Science.

--_A cenar teco. _

What does that _teco_ mean? Tonight perhaps.

_Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited
To come to supper tonight,
The rum the rumdum. _

Doesn't go properly.

Keyes: two months if I get Nannetti to. That'll be two pounds ten about
two pounds eight. Three Hynes owes me. Two eleven. Prescott's dyeworks
van over there. If I get Billy Prescott's ad: two fifteen. Five guineas
about. On the pig's back.

Could buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new
garters.

Today. Today. Not think.

Tour the south then. What about English wateringplaces? Brighton,
Margate.