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Can you see the beautyspot of my behind?
LYNCH: I’m not looking
ZOE: (Makes sheep’s eyes) No? You wouldn’t do a less
thing. Would you suck a lemon?
(Squinting in mock shame she glances with sidelong mean-
ing at Bloom, then twists round towards him, pulling her slip
free of the poker. Blue fluid again flows over her flesh. Bloom
stands, smiling desirously, twirling his thumbs. Kitty Ricketts
licks her middle finger with her spittle and, gazing in the mir-
ror, smooths both eyebrows. Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate,
chutes rapidly down through the chimneyflue and struts two
steps to the left on gawky pink stilts. He is sausaged into sev-
eral overcoats and wears a brown macintosh under which he
holds a roll of parchment. In his left eye flashes the monocle
of Cashel Boyle O’connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. On his
head is perched an Egyptian pshent. Two quills project over
his ears.)
VIRAG: (Heels together, bows) My name is Virag Lipoti,
of Szombathely. (He coughs thoughtfully, drily) Promiscuous
nakedness is much in evidence hereabouts, eh? Inadver-
tently her backview revealed the fact that she is not wearing
those rather intimate garments of which you are a partic-
ular devotee. The injection mark on the thigh I hope you
perceived? Good.
BLOOM: Granpapachi. But ...
VIRAG: Number two on the other hand, she of the cher-
ry rouge and coiffeuse white, whose hair owes not a little to
our tribal elixir of gopherwood, is in walking costume and
tightly staysed by her sit, I should opine. Backbone in front,