Ah.

His hand fell to his side again.

Never know anything about it.  Waste of time.  Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, passing.  Same old dingdong always.  Gas:  then solid:  then world:  then cold:  then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, like that pineapple rock.  The moon.  Must be a new moon out, she said.  I believe there is.

He went on by la maison Claire.

Wait.  The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is a new moon.  Walking down by the Tolka.  Not bad for a Fairview moon.  She was humming.  The young May moon she’s beaming, love.  He other side of her.  Elbow, arm.  He.  Glowworm’s la-amp is gleaming, love.  Touch.  Fingers.  Asking.  Answer.  Yes.

Stop.  Stop.  If it was it was.  Must.

Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court.

With a keep quiet relief his eyes took note this is the street here middle of the day of Bob Doran’s bottle shoulders.  On his annual bend, M Coy said.  They drink in order to say or do something or CHERCHEZ la femme. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the rest of the year sober as a judge.

Yes.  Thought so.  Sloping into the Empire.  Gone.  Plain soda would do him good.  Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen’s.  Broth of a boy.  Dion Boucicault business with his harvestmoon face in a poky bonnet.  Three Purty Maids from School.  How time flies, eh?  Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts.  Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath.  More power, Pat.  Coarse red:  fun for drunkards:  guffaw and smoke.  Take off that white hat.  His parboiled eyes.  Where is he now?  Beggar somewhere.  The harp that once did starve us all.

I was happier then.  Or was that I?  Or am I now I?  Twentyeight I was.  She twentythree.  When we left Lombard street west something changed.  Could never like it again after Rudy.  Can’t bring back time.  Like holding water in your hand.  Would you go back to then?  Just beginning then.  Would you?  Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy?  Wants to sew on buttons for me.  I must answer.  Write it in the library.

Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses.  Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the baking causeway.  Thick feet that woman has in the white stockings.  Hope the rain mucks them up on her.  Countrybred chawbacon.  All the beef to the heels were in.  Always gives a woman clumsy feet.  Molly looks out of plumb.

He passed, dallying, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers.  Cascades of ribbons.  Flimsy China silks.  A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin:  lustrous blood.  The huguenots brought that here.  La CAUSA E Santa!  Tara Tara.  Great chorus that.  Taree tara.  Must be washed in rainwater.  Meyerbeer.  Tara:  bom bom bom.