stephen: Why, sir?

  mr deasy: Because she never let them in.

  The music swells up and introduces the next scene, deasy repeats his words, coughing and laughing.

  deasy: Because she never let them in, that’s why.

  Scene Two

  Street noises, horses, carts, not automobiles.

  butcher: Here y’are den, sort. One pork kidney. That’ll be tourpence.

  bloom: Thanks. Lovely day.

  butcher: ’ Tis all dat. Thank ye, sorr.

  a boy: Hey, mister - what time is it?

  bloom: Five minutes past eight. On the morning of. Ah he’s gone. No manners.

  No. 5

  He sings.

  Today

  It’s the sixteenth of June today

  And from morning till moon

  The hours to come

  Will add up to a humdrum

  Sum – mer’s day.

  And yet

  There’s a feeling I seem to get -

  I was having this dream

  That let someone new

  Sidle into my view: We met.

  What’s the precognitive reason?

  (If that’s the right word)

  What does this kind of thing presage?

  (I don’t get any sager)

  Is it the glamour of the season –

  Scents upon the breeze and

  Hopes of early middle age?

  It may

  Just limp by in a routine way

  Leaving nothing to say

  But: one more dull summary:

  One more dull summery day.

  Pity about having to wear this black. Not right for heat. Black reflects, refracts, is it? Still – etiquette is etiquette. Poor Dignam. Wonder what time the funeral is. Must get a paper. That’s what drink does for a man. Ireland sober is Ireland stiff. Hard to find anyone stiffer than poor Dignam. Still, he’s sober now. Folk wisdom. Funeral livens up the day. Not a day to be dead on.

  Plenty of fleshly exposure –

  Necks and strawberries are red.

  Buttocky peaches in a basket,

  Racing on at Ascot,

  In the royal enclosure

  Ted.

  We’ll see

  If there’s anything else in store.

  Let’s be having it soon

  This sixteenth of June

  1904

  A-D

  We hear him opening the door of his house.

  Scene Three

  Bedroom, molly bloom is in bed, We hear the jingle of the springs. She sings in an improvised way.

  No. 6

  molly:

  At four o’clock this afternoon he’s coming

  La la lala

  Twirling his moustachios and gaily humming

  La la lala

  We can eat that potted meat I got for Sunday’s tea

  But I know the only thing he’ll want to eat is

  La lalalalalalalala

  I’ll get some fancy cakes from Downes’s cake shop

  Or some other bake shop

  Though he doesn’t go for any

  Fancy stuff, not any fancy stuff.

  He’s a bit rough, just a bit rough,

  He can’t get enough

  Of the simple little things no money can pay for

  Today for him and me –

  Four o’clock tea.

  bloom with a clanking tray enters. She starts.

  molly: Glory be to God –

  bloom: Breakfast.

  molly: That gave me a start. You haven’t worn black since –

  bloom: Dignam’s funeral.

  molly: Since poor little – Rudy. At Glasnevin, is it? Put some flowers on his – Poor little –

  bloom: So you’ve been up then.

  molly: For the post.

  bloom: Who’s it from?

  molly: Boylan. He’s bringing the programme.

  bloom: Blazes Boylan.

  He sing-mutters while molly, pouring tea, hums her song.

  No. 6a

  Boylan Boylan Blazes Boylan

  Bringing the programme, bringing more.

  I know Boylan Blazes Boylan,

  A boaster, a bully, a braggart, a bore…

  molly: What’s that you’re muttering, Poldy?

  bloom: What are you going to sing in this programme?

  molly: La ci darem la mano – duet with J. C. Doyle.

  bloom: And – ?

  molly (singing - we hear her first song in counterpoint, with bloom’s Boylan song as bass):

  No. 6b

  Just a song at twilight

  When the lights are low

  And the flickering shadows

  Softly come and go.

  Though the heart be weary,

  Sad the day and long,

  Still to us at twilight

  Comes love’s old song,

  Comes love’s old sweet song.

  bloom:

  Boylan Boylan Blazes Boylan

  With oil on his quiff and a whiff that’s strong

  Of Scotch and Irish and Blazes Boylan

  And a thing that can sing love’s old sweet song.

  molly: There’s a smell of burn. Did you leave anything on the fire?

  bloom: The kidney!

  He dashes out.

  molly: Poor Poldy. No, not poor Poldy.

  bloom (from below): It’s all right. Done to a turn.

  molly: Poor Rudy. Poor little Rudy. That’s when it started. Something goes out of a marriage. But -

  No. 7

  She sings.

  It’s your fault, Poldy, if I go to hell at all.

  I’m doing badly but you’ve not done well at all.

  If you treat me with such cold neglect,

  What can you expect?

  Living without loving till my chances are wrecked.

  It’s eighteen months since you did this or that to me

  Or even laid a hand on my anatomy.

  Don’t you see that’s how these things begin?

  Forcing me to sin,

  Giving it a welcome when it thrusts its way in.

  But Jesus God, it’s all the harm I ever did.

  The priests get mad because it’s what they never did.

  Why did God make me the way I am –

  Sweet as apple jam?

  He just sees us do it without giving a damn.

  But there’s Our Lady, and she’ll turn her back on me,

  And that’s when everything turns bitter black on me.

  There is a distant trundle of thunder.

  God forgive me in my lonely tomb,

  God forgive me at the crack of doom –

  And although you

  Are a disbelieving Jew,

  God forgive you too,

  Leopold Bloom.

  We hear bloom clomping up the stairs. He sings.

  bloom: La ci darem la mano . . .

  molly (after a wondering second): Voglio e non vorrei.

  bloom: I don’t think that’s right, that voglio. If you’re going on this tour of Boylan’s you ought to get it right. There ought to be somebody I could ask.

  The bells of St George’s church chime the quarter. The bedsprings jangle.

  bloom: Noisy that bed. It’s time we got a new one.

  molly: It has good memories for me. Father and mother in Gibraltar. I used to hear it jingle even then.

  bloom: Major Tweedy of the Rock garrison. Yes sir, no sir. I rose from the ranks and I’m proud of it, sir.

  molly: You’re not half the man he was.

  bloom: I may be late. Poor Dignam.

  We hear him going.

  molly: God forgive you too, Leopold Bloom.

  A death bell rings in the distance, comes up for the next scene.

  Scene Four

  Glasnevin cemetery. Birdsong. A tolling bell. Distant organ music. Spades. Feet on the gravel.

  mr dedalus: Poor Paddy Dignam. Five kids, I see. I thought there were more.

  mr power: Two died. There’s Dan O’Connell’s grave.

  mr cunningham: He’s at rest in the middle of his people. But his heart is buried at Rome. How many broken hearts are here, Simon.

  mr dedalus: Her grave is over there, Jack. I’ll soon be stretched beside her. Let Him take me whenever He likes.

  He weeps quietly to himself

  mr power: She’s better off where she is.

  mr dedalus: I suppose so. I suppose she’s in heaven if there is a heaven. And I’m in the other place on earth. With a pack of insolent bitches that won’t do a hand’s turn for their father since their poor mother died.

  mr cunningham: But there’s your son. Back from Paris, isn’t he?

  mr dedalus: Living in that bloody Martello tower. He’s in with a lowdown crowd. That Mulligan is a contaminated doubledyed bloody ruffian by all accounts. His name stinks all over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother I’ll make it my business to write a letter one of these days to his mother or his aunt or whatever she is that’ll open her eyes as wide as a gate. I’ll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.

  mr power: Keep it down, Dedalus.

  mr dedalus: I won’t have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son.

  No. 8

  bloom (singing):

  My son. Full of his son. He’s right.

  Something to hand on.

  If little Rudy had lived –

  See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house.

  Walking beside his mother in an Eton suit.

  My son. Me in his eyes.

  Strange feeling it would be.

  New life. From me.

  Just a chance.

  That morning in Richmond Terrace.

  Give us a touch, Foldy. God, I’m dying for it.

  How life begins.

  Got big then. My son inside her.

  I could haye helped him on in life.

  Make him independent. Learn German too.

  My son. Rudy. So much for you.

  We hear the crunching of another cortege, low singing, weeping.

  mr cunningham: Sad. A child.

  bloom (singing):

  No coincidence. Happening all the time.

  A dwarf’s face mauve and wrinkled.

  A dwarf’s body, weak as putty,

  In a whitelined deal box.

  Burial friendly society pays.

  Penny a week for a sod of turf.

  Our. Little. Beggar. Baby.

  Meant nothing. Mistake of nature.

  If it’s healthy, it’s from the mother.

  If not, the man. Better luck next time.

  But there’s no next time.

  mr dedalus: Poor little thing. It’s well out of it.

  mr cunningham: In the midst of life.

  bloom: My son. Rudy. So much for you.

  mr power: Was he insured? Dignam. Was he insured?

  mr cunningham: I believe so, but the policy was heavily mortgaged.

  bloom: We must get a whip up for them. Just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up.

  mr dedalus (dubiously): Yes, yes, a good idea.

  bloom: We could meet this afternoon. About four. Barney Kiernan’s. That’s near the courthouse, Mr Cunningham.

  mr cunningham: I know where it is, thank you.

  We hear hynes coming on, out of breath.

  hynes (to bloom): I’m just taking the names. What’s your Christian name, Bloom? I’m not sure.

  bloom: Christian, I see. L. Leopold.

  hynes: Is that today’s you have in your pocket? I’ve not had time to see it yet. Ascot Gold Cup today. I just want to find out the name of that French horse. Where the bugger is it?

  bloom: Take your time. Take it with you. I was just going to throw it away.

  hynes (startled): Hey? What’s that?

  bloom (smiling): I said I was just going to throw it away.

  hynes: Throwaway? Rank outsider, but by Jesus I’ll risk it. Is there a telephone round here?

  He goes off hurriedly.

  bloom: A fool and his money. How are things, Kernan?

  kernan: What’s this I hear from the hairy feller, Blazes?

  bloom: Boylan? Oh, he’s getting up a concert tour. For the summer, you know – a round of the chief towns.

  kernan: Faith, he’s an organizer. Organize anybody, he will. A hairy chap, Blazes.

  menton: Who’s that chap behind with Tom Kernan? I know his face.

  mr dedalus: Bloom. Madam Marion Tweedy that was, is, I mean, the soprano. She’s his wife.

  menton: Ah, to be sure. I haven’t seen her for some time. She was a fine-looking woman. I danced with her –oh fifteen golden years it must be – at Mat Dillon’s in Roundtown. And a good armful she was.

  mr power: Still is.

  menton: What is he? What does he do? Wasn’t he in the stationery line?

  mr dedalus: Yes, he was. A traveller for blotting paper.

  menton: In God’s name, what did she marry a coon like that for? She had plenty of game in her.

  mr power: Has still. He does canvassing for ads. Freeman’s Journal.

  mr dedalus: Ah, let’s go round by the Chief’s grave.

  mr power: Aye, let’s do that.

  They crunch along.

  Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled with stones. That some day he will come again.

  mr dedalus: Parnell will never come again. He’s there, all that was mortal of him. Peace to his ashes.

  (He calls.) You coming, Bloom? Or do you feel – uninvolved?

  bloom: I’ve another grave to visit.

  mr dedalus: Ah.

  They go off.

  bloom: See Rudy’s grave and back to the world again. Ah damn, I forgot flowers. Never mind. Must see about that ad. Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time. Gives you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to you after death. You will see my ghost after death. There is another world after death called hell. Brrr. Plenty to see and hear and feel yet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. They’re not going to get me this innings. Warm beds. Warm.

  No. 9

  He sings.

  Warm full-blooded life:

  Women as shining as goddesses

  Under the bustles and bodices,

  Scent you could cut with a knife.

  Warm full-blooded life:

  Frilly silk drawers that have legs in them,

  Omelettes with five hundred eggs in them,

  Sherry and cream in the trif -

  Le.

  The sun beating down on the bums of juvenile lovers,

  Spiced plovers on toast and a roast under silvery covers.

  Hot full-blooded nights:

  Sin after sin and no nemesis,

  Love on another man’s premises,

  Bosoms and blossoms and fights.

  Warm full-blooded life:

  Men full of lustful proclivities,

  Dancing at parish festivities,

  Each with another man’s wife . . .

  But that’s not me, that’s not me at all. That’s . . .

  We hear molly’s voice in the distance singing:

  At four o’clock this afternoon he’s coming . . .

  bloom:

  Boylan Boylan Blazes Boylan

  With oil on his quiff and a whiff that’s strong

  Of Cointreau and Kümmel and Blazes Boylan.

  And a thing that can sing love’s old sweet . . .

  He is interrupted by a new cortege – the mutter of Latin, mother’s tears, the single bell.

  Shall I go to his grave? What good will it do? I need a live son, not a dead one.

  We hear his feet crunching off.

  Scene Five

  Newspaper office. The sound of the presses, bloom is on the telephone. myles crawford is reading out some copy.

  bloom: Hallo. Freeman’s Journal here. Yes. I’m speaking from the editor’s office. Yes. Is the boss there? To where . . .? Aha . . . Which auction rooms? Aha, I see. Right. I’ll catch him.

  crawford: ‘Or, again, note the meanderings of some purling rill as it babbles on its way . . .’

  mr dedalus: Agonizing Christ, wouldn’t it give you a heartburn on your arse?

  crawford: ‘ …Fanned by gentle zephyrs though quarrelling with the stony obstacles, to the tumbling waters of Neptune’s blue domain, mid mossy banks, played on by the glorious sunlight …’

  mr dedalus: Shite and onions.

  bloom: What is it, Mr Crawford?

  mr dedalus: A recently discovered fragment of Cicero.

  ‘Our Lovely Land.’

  bloom: Whose land?

  crawford: Most pertinent question. With an accent on the whose.

  bloom: Mr Crawford, sir, I’m just running round to Bachelor’s Walk. About this ad. Keyes. Alexander Keyes. The tea merchant. Want to fix it up. They say he’s round at Dillon’s.

  crawford: Begone! The world is before you.

  bloom: Back in no time.

  crawford: Listen to this. ‘Our mild mysterious Irish twilight that mantles the vista far and wide and waits till the glowing orb of the moon shines forth to irradiate her silver effulgence.’

  mr dedalus: Come on, Myles. I need a drink after that.

  hynes: He’ll get that advertisement. Look at the speed on him. Look at the young scamps after him.

  crawford: Who? Where?

  hynes: Bloom. See that young guttersnipe after him hue and cry. Taking off his flat spaugs and the walk. Small nines. Oh my rib risible.

  mr dedalus: Come on, Hynes. I’ve a thirst I wouldn’t sell for . . . You have money, Myles?

  crawford: Never. Editorial duties, Simon. Later.

  We hear mr dedalus singing as he goes out. hynes joins in.

  mr dedalus:

  When first I saw

  That form endearing

  Sorrow from me seemed to depart . . .

  crawford: Who has the most matches?

  lenehan: Who has the most cigarettes? Ah, thanky vous. Well well, entrez, mes enfants.