Read it through once

Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer’s ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. _Un demi sétier!_ A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me at his beck. _Il est irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez ah, oui!_ She thought you wanted a cheese _hollandais_. Your postprandial, do you know that word? Postprandial. There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his postprandial. Well: _slainte!_ Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy’s fang thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. You’re your father’s son. I know the voice. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. _Vieille ogresse_ with the _dents jaunes_. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, _La Patrie_, M. Millevoye, Félix Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken, _bonne à tout faire_, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. _Moi faire_, she said, _Tous les messieurs_. Not this _Monsieur_, I said. Most licentious custom. Bath a most private thing. I wouldn’t let my brother, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing. Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people.