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BLOOM: Is this Mrs Mack’s?
ZOE: No, eightyone. Mrs Cohen’s. You might go farther
and fare worse. Mother Slipperslapper. (Familiarly) She’s on
the job herself tonight with the vet her tipster that gives her
all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford. Working
overtime but her luck’s turned today. (Suspiciously) You’re
not his father, are you?
BLOOM: Not I!
ZOE: You both in black. Has little mousey any tickles
tonight?
(His skin, alert, feels her fingertips approach. A hand
glides over his left thigh.)
ZOE: How’s the nuts?
BLOOM: Off side. Curiously they are on the right. Heavi-
er, I suppose. One in a million my tailor, Mesias, says.
ZOE: (In sudden alarm) You’ve a hard chancre.
BLOOM: Not likely.
ZOE: I feel it.
(Her hand slides into his left trouser pocket and brings out
a hard black shrivelled potato. She regards it and Bloom with
dumb moist lips.)
BLOOM: A talisman. Heirloom.
ZOE: For Zoe? For keeps? For being so nice, eh?
(She puts the potato greedily into a pocket then links his
arm, cuddling him with supple warmth. He smiles uneasily.
Slowly, note by note, oriental music is played. He gazes in
the tawny crystal of her eyes, ringed with kohol. His smile
softens.)
ZOE: You’ll know me the next time.