Ulysses
195
of
1305
strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was
true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday
buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.
O, poor Robinson Crusoe!
How could you possibly do so?
Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box.
When you think of them all it does seem a waste of wood.
All gnawed through. They could invent a handsome bier
with a kind of panel sliding, let it down that way. Ay but
they might object to be buried out of another fellow’s.
They’re so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of
clay from the holy land. Only a mother and deadborn
child ever buried in the one coffin. I see what it means. I
see. To protect him as long as possible even in the earth.
The Irishman’s house is his coffin. Embalming in
catacombs, mummies the same idea.
Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting
the bared heads. Twelve. I’m thirteen. No. The chap in
the macintosh is thirteen. Death’s number. Where the
deuce did he pop out of? He wasn’t in the chapel, that I’ll
swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.
Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of
purple. I had one like that when we lived in Lombard
street west. Dressy fellow he was once. Used to change
Ulysses
196
of
1305
three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit of mine
turned by Mesias. Hello. It’s dyed. His wife I forgot he’s
not married or his landlady ought to have picked out those
threads for him.
The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men
straddled on the gravetrestles. They struggled up and out:
and all uncovered. Twenty.
Pause.
If we were all suddenly somebody else.
Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never
see a dead one, they say. Shame of death. They hide. Also
poor papa went away.
Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a
whisper. Whisper. The boy by the gravehead held his
wreath with both hands staring quietly in the black open
space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindly
caretaker. Wellcut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps
to see which will go next. Well, it is a long rest. Feel no
more. It’s the moment you feel. Must be damned
unpleasant. Can’t believe it at first. Mistake must be:
someone else. Try the house opposite. Wait, I wanted to.
I haven’t yet. Then darkened deathchamber. Light they
want. Whispering around you. Would you like to see a
priest? Then rambling and wandering. Delirium all you
Ulysses
197
of
1305
hid all your life. The death struggle. His sleep is not
natural. Press his lower eyelid. Watching is his nose
pointed is his jaw sinking are the soles of his feet yellow.
Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the floor since
he’s doomed. Devil in that picture of sinner’s death
showing him a woman. Dying to embrace her in his shirt.
Last act of Lucia. Shall i nevermore behold thee? Bam! He
expires. Gone at last. People talk about you a bit: forget
you. Don’t forget to pray for him. Remember him in
your prayers. Even Parnell. Ivy day dying out. Then they
follow: dropping into a hole, one after the other.
We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping
you’re well and not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the
fryingpan of life into the fire of purgatory.
Does he ever think of the hole waiting for himself?
They say you do when you shiver in the sun. Someone
walking over it. Callboy’s warning. Near you. Mine over
there towards Finglas, the plot I bought. Mamma, poor
mamma, and little Rudy.
The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy
clods of clay in on the coffin. Mr Bloom turned away his
face. And if he was alive all the time? Whew! By jingo,
that would be awful! No, no: he is dead, of course. Of
course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have
Ulysses
198
of
1305
some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric
clock or a telephone in the coffin and some kind of a
canvas airhole. Flag of distress. Three days. Rather long to
keep them in summer. Just as well to get shut of them as
soon as you are sure there’s no.
The clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight,
out of mind.
The caretaker moved away a few paces and put on his
hat. Had enough of it. The mourners took heart of grace,
one by one, covering themselves without show. Mr
Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly figure make its
way deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of his
ground, he traversed the dismal fields.
Hynes jotting down something in his notebook. Ah,
the names. But he knows them all. No: coming to me.
—I am just taking the names, Hynes said below his
breath. What is your christian name? I’m not sure.
—L, Mr Bloom said. Leopold. And you might put
down M’Coy’s name too. He asked me to.
—Charley, Hynes said writing. I know. He was on the
Freeman once.
So he was before he got the job in the morgue under
Louis Byrne. Good idea a postmortem for doctors. Find
out what they imagine they know. He died of a Tuesday.
Dostları ilə paylaş: |