He looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a
wife of his. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the
furniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the
damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning. Start afresh.
Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked a sight that night
Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunk about the place and capering with
Martin's umbrella.
AND THEY CALL ME THE JEWEL OF ASIA,
OF ASIA,
THE GEISHA.
He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones.
That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The
room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through
the slats of the Venetian blind. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and hairy.
Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw like yellow
streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed. Verdict:
overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son Leopold.
No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.
The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones.
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