Stately plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather (Nivea For Men sensitive gel, with aloe vera) on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressing gown (from the middle aisle at Lidl), ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:
– Introibo ad altare Dei.
Halting, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely:
– Come up, Kinch. Come up, you fearful Jesuit.
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Then, patting his midriff with some concern, he checked the health app on his iPhone. “Where are you off to?” Stephen Dedalus asked as they passed on the tower’s narrow stairs. “I’m going down to come up again,” said Mulligan. “Need to get some steps in before breakfast.”
***
Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought Stephen. Which reminded him to check his Instagram again, for the first time in five minutes. His last post had garnered only two likes, he noted frowning. So he tried again, taking a quick selfie and this time accompanying it with a teaser question that was sure to provoke a response: “Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount Strand?”
***
Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. Or at least he used to, before starting on the fat jabs. Now he couldn’t look at a grilled mutton kidney, never mind enjoy its tang of faintly scented urine (yeuch!). Yes, he liked his new waistline. Even so, he missed the time when he could still enjoy food.
***
Outside Westland Row post office (now a Centra), Mr Bloom paused and furtively checked his Tinder account, where his name was “Henry Flower”. His heart skipped as he saw a match with “Martha” and read the words “naughty” and “I will punish you”. Looking around to check no one was watching, he swiped right.
***
– Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.
– Wine of the country, says he.
– What’s yours? says Joe
– Ditto McAnaspie, says I
– Red or white? says a passing barman.
– What? says the Citizen.
– The wine – red or white? says the barman, who was Brazilian. And of which country?
– Black, says the citizen. And Ireland, of course.
– We have no black wine, says the barman, smiling. But we have a nice Malbec from Argentina – that’s pretty dark.
So Joe has to explain that we’re looking for three pints of stout, as usual. And when the poor barman goes off to get it, the Citizen starts up again about the evils of globalisation and you can’t even get a decent pint any more and Ireland is full and all that claptrap. Begob, he’s full of something himself, the same man.
***
Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of Mountjoy Square. Yes: they were from Belvedere. Aha. And were they good boys at school? Ó. That was very good now. Father Conmee gave a letter from his breast to Master Brunny Lynam and pointed to the green pillar box at the corner of Fitzgibbon Street.
– But mind you don’t post yourself into the box, little man, he said.
The boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed. Then, still laughing, Master Brunny Lynam ran across the street directly into a path of a speeding Deliveroo cyclist who, swerving to avoid him, crashed into the e-scooter of Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing, who had been travelling in the opposite direction, scattering the contents of the Deliveroo satchel, which included an order for Mrs Bloom of 7 Eccles Street, all over the road.
– Oh dear, said Father Conmee, as Master Brunny Lynam and his pals, no longer laughing, fled the scene.
***
The Mabbot Street entrance of nightgown, before which stretches an uncobbled transuding set of nondescript modern office buildings and apartments, with no sign of a red light anywhere, except for traffic. The ghost of a British soldier, Private Carr, pauses to read a wall plaque in memory of Frank Duff (1889 – 1980), founder of the Legion of Mary, whose work led to the closure of ‘Monto’. “Cor Blimey,” he mutters: “Dublin has gone to the dogs.”
***
... and how he kissed me under the, like, Moorish wall and I was like, well, as well him as another and then I asked him with my, like, eyes to ask again, like, yes, and then he asked me would I say yes to say, like, yes my mountain flower (I swear!) and first I put my, like, arms around him yes and, like, drew him down to me so he could feel my, like, breasts all perfume yes and – Oh! My! God! – his heart was going, like, mad and yes I said yes I will yes, like, absolutely!
