Secret Isaac by Jerome Charyn Page B

mutterings made no sense to Isaac. His ears were freezing, but he wasn’t going to buy a hat in August. It was a turn to the left and up another street, narrower, with a row of gray houses. Then a turn to the right, a high street again with broken signboards and pubs with blue walls that had begun to chip and peel. A jump to the left and they were on Eccles Street, in what had to be a bitten part of town, a much lesser Dublin than Stephen’s Green. Marshall led him by the hand to Bloom’s house. The roof had been lopped off. The windows were boarded. Weeds showed through the cracks in the wood. The front door was torn out and replaced with ribbons of tin. The cellar was overgrown with harsh, bending flowers that were beginning to stink. The steps had mostly turned to rubble. Marshall swayed in front of Bloom’s ravaged house. He was a heavy man, with a thickness behind his ears. The dean was about to blubber. Isaac heard a dry, hacking sound.
    â€œPoldy,” he said. “Poldy Bloom … God save us from the Irish and ourselves. We don’t deserve James Joyce.”
    The Irish could destroy Dublin for all Isaac cared, long as they held Dermott Bride. Eccles Street was like portions of the Bronx. Bombed-out territories and a few pubs. Marshall recovered himself. He wanted to drag Moses to a second landmark. A chemist’s shop important to Bloom. Sylvia rescued Isaac. “Marsh, why don’t you go? I’ll take Isaac back to the hotel.”
    Marshall shrugged and kissed his wife, and he was gone from Eccles Street. Sylvia began to curse her husband. “Did you ever see such a big fat wobbly ass?… he was putting on a show for you.”
    â€œHis crying in front of Bloom’s house?”
    â€œThat’s not it. He always cries.”
    Isaac looked at Mrs. Berkowitz. He was getting used to her sleepless eyes. Moses Herzog muttered to himself. He promised the worm he wouldn’t cuckold Dean Ber kowitz. Swear on Dermott’s life. Sylvia took him on another route. They didn’t pass O’Connell Street. They were in a goddamn alley. Isaac couldn’t have told you whether they’d crossed the Liffey or not. Sylvia’s skirt was up. He had her against the roughened wall of some poorman’s lane. He thought they’d get arrested on account of her screams. Sylvia could move against a wall like no other woman. She was wet, wet, wet, but Moses had no feeling in his prick. Was it the worm’s doing? He’d have an operation, magical surgery that could cut that bastard out of him. Isaac had a revelation at the wall. He wasn’t fucking Sylvia. Her hunger had nothing to do with him. Isaac had a terrible, crazy, killing need for Jennifer Pears. He hadn’t even said goodbye to her. Just got on a plane. To avenge a whore with Dermott’s mark on her. Bouncing into Sylvia cursed him with visions of Jennifer’s body. Was it a kind of punishment? Moses’ hell? Why couldn’t he keep away from other men’s wives?

    Marsh was at the Shelbourne, drinking cider with lemon peel, when Sylvia brought him in. The dean should have been in a darker mood. Isaac had Sylvia’s smell all over his pants. A school of Dublin orphans could have sensed they’d been out fucking in the streets. But the dean had come back from his landmark, and he wouldn’t chastise his wife. “Moses, guess who’s living here at the Shelbourne with us?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œDermott McBride.”
    Isaac was prepared to kill. A dean of freshman had more avenues to King Dermott than the First Deputy of New York.
    â€œMarsh, how did you get to know little Dermott?”
    â€œAre you crazy? You’re the one who introduced him to me.”
    â€œI led you to Dermott?” Isaac said.
    â€œHe couldn’t have gotten into Columbia without your vote.”
    â€œI thought Dermott went to Yale.”
    â€œHe did. He left us after one semester