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nambula. He heard Joe Maas sing that one night. Ah, what
M’Guckin! Yes. In his way. Choirboy style. Maas was the
boy. Massboy. A lyrical tenor if you like. Never forget it.
Never.
Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the tightened
features strain. Backache he. Bright’s bright eye. Next item
on the programme. Paying the piper. Pills, pounded bread,
worth a guinea a box. Stave it off awhile. Sings too: Down
among the dead men. Appropriate. Kidney pie. Sweets to
the. Not making much hand of it. Best value in. Character-
istic of him. Power. Particular about his drink. Flaw in the
glass, fresh Vartry water. Fecking matches from counters
to save. Then squander a sovereign in dribs and drabs. And
when he’s wanted not a farthing. Screwed refusing to pay
his fare. Curious types.
Never would Richie forget that night. As long as he lived:
never. In the gods of the old Royal with little Peake. And
when the first note.
Speech paused on Richie’s lips.
Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies about
damn all.
Believes his own lies. Does really. Wonderful liar. But
want a good memory.
—Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.
—All is lost now.
Richie cocked his lips apout. A low incipient note sweet
banshee murmured: all. A thrush. A throstle. His breath,
birdsweet, good teeth he’s proud of, fluted with plaintive
woe. Is lost. Rich sound. Two notes in one there. Blackbird I