All language subtitles for Nymphomaniac.Vol.II.2013

This is nothing less
than "Zeno's paradox."

You are Achilles
and the tortoise is the orgasm.

- Oh, come on.
- No, no, no. Listen.

Achilles and the tortoise
are going to race,

and Achilles is confident,

so he gives the tortoise
a hundred meters head start.

Now the mathematical problem
is that

before Achilles
can pass the tortoise,

he has to reach the point

where the tortoise started
after a hundred meters.

But when Achilles gets there,
the tortoise has already moved on,

and then he has
to reach the next point,

and the tortoise
has moved on again

and so on and so on and so on.

So Achilles can never reach
the tortoise and never pass him.

And in the same way,
because you were giving chase,

you couldn't reach satisfaction.
That's the paradox.

I'm sorry, but it seems as if you're
not taking this very seriously.

I'm telling you about the worst
thing that's happened to me,

that I at that point, within seconds,
lost all sexual sensation.

My cunt simply went numb.

And immediately
we have to hear about

this ridiculous
mathematical problem.

In fact, I'm in doubt
whether you're even listening.

Why do you doubt that?

This is not a story I've told
in its entirety before,

but whenever I've told other men
about experiences,

episodes in my sex life,

it was easy to see
that they became quite excited.

I got excited.

Yes, about the mathematical crap,
not about the story.

What kind of a person
are you, actually?

I...

You wouldn't know.

No, but I can guess.

Why didn't I get that earlier?

The fact you don't get excited
over my dirty stories

is because you can't relate
to them.

You've never been with a woman.

That's quite accurate.

Not with a man, either.

Are you sorry about that?

Well, yeah, out of curiosity...

not out of lust,
as you would think.

I consider myself asexual.

Of course, I experimented with
masturbation when I was a teenager,

but it didn't do much for me.

So, there's nothing sexual
about me.

It's not as uncommon
as you would think.

And of course, I've read a lot
about sexual subjects...

"Canterbury Tales"," Decameron",
"Thousand and One Nights".

You name it and I've read it
with great interest

and enjoyment,

but only literary enjoyment.

But... but I think
maybe it makes me

a better listener
to your story, and...

I have no preconceived notions
or preferences.

I'm actually the best judge
you could give your story to.

And when it comes to deciding whether
you're a bad human being or not,

I'm... I've no problems with that.

Because I don't look at you
through the glasses

colored by sexuality
or sexual experience.

I'm a virgin.

I'm innocent.

She's looking at me.

Yes.

It's an icon.
Is it Russian?

Yes, it's, uh...

It's a skilled copy,
maybe in the manner of Rublev.

Icons are usually connected
to the Eastern Church.

The Eastern Church?

I might become a bit theoretical.

You may. I'd like you to tell me
about your picture.

Although the Christian church
was split up in 1054

because of differences in opinion

between the Eastern Church
and the Western Church,

what we today call the Orthodox Church
and the Roman Catholic Church,

this is a typical Eastern Church icon.

It usually depicts the Virgin Mary

and the infant Jesus
and more rarely,

for instance, the crucifixion,

which in the Western Church
was much more prevalent.

If you generalize, you could say
that the Western Church

is the church of suffering,

and the Eastern Church
is the church of happiness.

Why is she looking right at me?

Well, she's telling a story.

Icons were originally a kind of

pictorial Bibles for the illiterate.

There are some who say you...

you read an icon, even write it.

There are different types of icons.
This is a Hodegetria.

The directions are very important.

She's looking at you, but she's
pointing at the baby Jesus.

And he's looking at you
and pointing at her.

Do you see how flat it is?
There's no... no perspective.

It's because it's an image of eternity.

And eternity isn't in 3-D.

But you said the Eastern Church
was the church of joy?

Yeah, the sanctities
of the Eastern Church

were all about the joy of faith

while the Western Church wallowed
in... in suffering and death.

If you imagine a... a mental
journey from Rome eastward,

you feel how you move away
from guilt and pain

towards joy and light.

But you say
you didn't believe in God.

No, but the concept of religion
is interesting.

Like the concept of sex.

But you won't find me
on my knees

with regards to either.

Let's call this chapter,

"The Eastern Church
and the Western Church."

But it won't be...

it won't be a story about
traveling east from Rome

towards the light,
but rather the opposite.

So, in order
not to make it too sad,

I've pepped up the name of
the chapter with an extra title.

I have to go back a bit.

I was 12 years old and
on a school trip in the hills.

- Are you making fun of me?
- What do you mean?

You have this orgasm,
not only an orgasm

- but a spontaneous orgasm.
- Yes, it was an orgasm,

though the doctor described it
as an epileptic seizure.

And during that orgasm,
you had this vision?

Of these two women
on each side of you.

The woman on my right side
seemed to be dressed

in purple and scarlet

with a lot of gold and pearls.

She was carrying a golden goblet
in her hand.

She was sitting
on some strange animal.

And then the other woman
was dressed in Roman clothes,

a baby on her arm

and her hair lay in tight waves
beneath a veil.

Was she holding the veil
with two fingers like this?

And the other woman,

was she sitting on an animal
with seven heads and ten horns?

The animal only had one head.
It was kind of a bull.

What's the matter?

You're making this up.

No, I'm not. I'm telling you
about my first orgasm,

which came upon me
without the slightest touch

in some strange ways
up in the mountains.

I never had achieved
an orgasm before,

even though I masturbated

as if my life depended on it
during that time.

Your story is like a...
blasphemous retelling

of the Transfiguration
of Jesus on the Mount,

which is one of the Eastern Church's
holiest passages.

It's when the humanity of Christ
is illuminated

by the divine light of eternity.

Jesus, Peter and two disciples
had climbed a mountain.

And suddenly,
the disciples see this light

emanating from Jesus' head.

And Moses and Elijah
appear by his side.

And they hear the voice of God,
calling him his son.

The relationship between...
between the two women and you

would be the same
as the relation

between Moses and Elijah
and Jesus.

And that's where
it becomes blasphemous.

I see.

You don't even...

you don't even know who
these women were, do you?

No, but one of them did look
like the Virgin Mary,

now that you mention it.

Well, it wasn't the Virgin Mary,
I can tell you that.

From your description,

it must've been
Valeria Messalina,

the wife of Emperor Claudius,

the most notorious nymphomaniac
in history.

I thought she looked
like your icon.

We have that image
from a statue in the Louvre.

It's made like a Hodegetria, but it's
not a religious person, far from it.

And the other woman,
the one astride the creature,

that was no one else
but the great Whore of Babylon,

riding on Nimrod
in the form of a bull.

If anyone else
would've told me that story,

I would've seen it
as a blasphemous joke,

spiced up with a Biblical light

emanating from nothing less
than a spontaneous orgasm.

Goodness gracious.

You demand a lot
of your listener.

I promise you I'm as innocent
in regards to the religious

as you are when it comes to sex.

The Transfiguration
on the Venus Mount.

And then later,
you lost your orgasm altogether.

Wagner. "Das Rheingold".

The descent into Nibelheim.
Was it that bad?

Try to imagine that
in one fell swoop,

you lost all desire to read

and all your love and passion
for books and letters.

I don't even know
if I can imagine that.

Can I help you?

But as so often before in my life,

a bit of hope sprang
from a mystical event.

Which was?

Three dead leaves
performing a strange ballet.

That gave you hope?
For what?

- For regaining my sexuality.
- How?

To claim it by force.

In spite of my tireless efforts,

my cunt totally failed to respond.

But the fact
that the initiative had shifted

seemed to encourage Jerome greatly.

And I have to admit
there came a time

when we had fun together.

I'll give you a fiver.

Uh-huh.

If you can put this...

up inside your cunt.

- A fiver?
- Right.

Shit.

- Thank you.
- You're welcome.

- Didn't you get any spoons?
- No, we didn't.

So what does this tell us?

That love and sex have nothing
to do with each other, or...

or that they decidedly
work against one another?

The most grotesque thing
was that it was during that period,

where every sexual sensation
was denied me, a period,

I must admit, of secure
and restful domestic comfort.

We had moved in together
and so on,

that I became pregnant,

because I was careless
about my birth control pills.

Consciously or unconsciously,

it was important for me
to have a Caesarean.

I mean, I was hoping that my cunt
was going to fucking work again,

and I had a feeling
that a haphazard birth

wouldn't make things better.

I may have been imagining things,

but as I lay there,
the noise from the instruments

rang out in a chord like
the one from the Little Flock.

Yes. And it wasn't fear.

More like a kind of disgust.

I could've sworn
I saw him laughing.

A laughing son.

In "Doctor Faustus",
Thomas Mann describes

the birth of Noah's son Ham,

who was laughing when he was born.

Another satanic omen.

Incidentally, the innocent child
was named Marcel after Mars,

the Roman God of War.

And motherhood?

I assume maternal love didn't
quite live up to its expectations.

No, I didn't have
any expectations.

And maternal love
wasn't a problem.

It was just that each time
I looked into the child's eyes,

I had this unsettling feeling
of having been found out.

It's probably
a strange thing to say about a child...

that my love wasn't being returned.

But it was my perception.

If Jerome had hoped for a break
from what was for him

now mostly strenuous work,
he could forget about it.

Achilles was again chasing
the tortoise.

- Fill all my holes.
- I can't, Joe.

I'm sorry.

I'm trying.

- Can we talk a bit?
- Of course.

I love you. I love your wildness
and your desire. I love you, Joe.

At the moment,
I don't seem to satisfy you

in the way that I'd like to.

Don't get upset, Joe.

It doesn't mean we won't continue
with our sex life,

which is very important to me.

Very important to me.

When you buy a tiger, right,

you also have to feed it.

Um, satisfy it, right?

Long story short.

I have a tiger on my hands.

- You mean I'm too much for you.
- No.

You're just the way you should be.

I was just thinking
if you would consider

that I get a little help
with the feeding, that's all.

You're saying I should have sex
with others as well.

That's a rather cruel way
of putting it, Joe, but...

- But exact.
- Exact.

For a long time I'd
been playing around with the idea

that the concept of
the fuck-me-now clothes

could be improved.

You look nice.

And became the piano teacher.

- You okay?
- No.

- What's the matter?
- Well, I'm such an idiot with cars.

I don't really know what to do.
Do you mind helping me?

Of course it won't work. The
spark plug caps have been removed.

Yes, I did that.
Was that wrong?

For the first time
I had the pleasure

of having an eight-cylinder car.

The possible combinations

of eight spark plug caps
on eight spark plugs

are 40,320,

if I remember
my math correctly.

And only one of these
will make the car run,

which gave me
all the time I needed.

Beethoven, huh?
He was certainly very good,

but, you know,
he couldn't write a fugue.

- You think so?
- Well, yeah, I think so.

It would be more precise
to say that Beethoven

renewed the fugue.

That he was such a visionary
that the old Bach purists,

they accused him
of not mastering it.

Good day?

Not one word was ever spoken

between me and Jerome
about my piano lessons.

The first time the
mysterious letters

addressed to me arrived,

I, of course, feared that
they were love letters

from someone I'd completely
forgotten about and hid them,

so as not to hurt Jerome
if he should see them.

But as Jerome was always somehow
present when I would get the mail,

and as the envelopes
were always empty,

I understood that the letters,
in fact,

were sent by Jerome himself
as a way of testing me.

My decision not to
show them to him

was exactly the reaction
he had feared,

and it reaffirmed
his insane jealousy

and his fantasies
of the countless times

I would fall in love for real
while being the piano teacher.

And now to reach the heart

of your suffering Western Church,

I have to jump ahead
three years in the story

and talk about my meeting
with what I would call

"The Dangerous Men."

I was alone with Marcel a lot
during this period,

as Jerome was traveling
most of the time,

and when he was finally home,
he spent most of the time

accusing me of neglecting Marcel,

which, in my opinion,

was just a cover for
his anger over my lovers.

Despite my, to put it mildly,
promiscuous initiatives,

any sexual satisfaction,
let alone orgasm,

was further away than ever before.

I had to make a change.

And somehow,
the inspiration had been

right there beneath my window
the whole time.

I'd planned to go where
I would never before

had dreamt of going.

For instance, to be with a man with
whom I shared no spoken language.

I could feel that
it turned me on enormously

to imagine a sexual situation

in which verbal communication
was impossible.

- Hello.
- Hello.

I'm Tobias, the interpreter.

Hello, I'm Joe. Come in.

I understand that you mastered
the African languages.

I do have a basis.

Who and what needs
interpretation?

Um, that man.
The one with the green jacket.

What language is being spoken?

Well, God knows. I...

All I know is that
he doesn't speak English.

It's quite difficult.

But, uh, we did manage
to find a dialect,

of which we both
had some knowledge.

Mm-hm.

You coming?

No, I'll stay here,
and the two of you communicate.

You are to ask him if he wants
to have sex with me.

- Sex?
- Mm-hmm.

Yeah, um...

- Is it a go?
- It's hard to say.

I've written down
the time and place, but, um...

Honestly, I wouldn't like
to take responsibility

for the precise wording
in this case, which I think,

uh, accidentally may belong

to a grey zone in my profession.

It was the address of
a cheap hotel.

Why were there two?

My words exactly.

Apparently, N had brought
his brother along.

Why was he so angry?

Clearly, it was something
personal between them,

but later I heard that
performing a sandwich

requires great sensitivity,
since the men apparently

can feel each other
through the tissue.

I imagine the quarrel had
already started on the stairs

and that one or the other party
had laid claim

to one or the other of my holes

in conflict with his Negro
brother's interests.

You shouldn't use that word.

It's not what you call
politically correct.

Negro.

Well, excuse me,
but in my circles,

it's always been a mark of honor
to call a spade a spade.

Each time a word becomes prohibited,

you remove a stone
from the democratic foundation.

Society demonstrates its impotence
in the face of a concrete problem

by removing words
from the language.

The book burners have nothing
on modern society.

I think society would claim

that politically correctness
is a very precise expression

of democratic concern
for minorities.

And I say that society is
as cowardly as the people in it

who, in my opinion, are also
too stupid for democracy.

I understand your point,
but I totally disagree.

I have no doubt
in the human qualities.

The human qualities can be
expressed in one word:

hypocrisy.

We elevate those who say
right but mean wrong,

and mock those who say
wrong but mean right.

Society is based on hate.

It should be based
on forgiveness.

Hatred is rudimentary.

One should be able
to forgive one's executioner.

By the way, I can assure you

that women who claim that Negros
don't turn them on are lying.

So, did they satisfy you?

Those Ne... Negros.

No, but they showed me that
there was a world far from mine

I had to explore.

And there, or perhaps
on the other side

get my life back.

Who are you?

I know what you do.

I'd like to be
one of the women you see.

That's of no interest.

Madame.

Princess,
I specifically said five days,

and five days haven't gone yet.

So, you'll have to leave.
Sorry.

You still here?

I, uh...

I don't think this is for you.

Shall we conduct a small test?

Stand up.

Sit down, please.

I just want you to sit
completely relaxed

while I hit you in the face.

Nothing special.

It's just a...
it's just a slap.

You ready?

I'm ready.

No!

See?

How mysterious.

Will you give me
a reasonable explanation now,

or shall we wait?

I can't give you an explanation

and certainly not a reasonable one.

What exactly were the rumors
about him?

- That he was violent.
- How can that be exciting?

I think the easiest way
to understand it

is to refer to my rebellious nature.

This business of K's was something
I was completely against.

So, the fact
that I was now contacting him

was a last, desperate attempt

to rehabilitate my sexuality.

The system was
the overriding factor with K.

A system of violence?

Well, you were the one

who insisted on
the Western Church, right?

And I... I seem to remember

that the systematic approach
to the crucifixion

is of a violent
and not to say sadistic nature.

Oh yes, the Passion of Christ
is full of systematic violence.

The Via Dolorosa,
the Nine Stations of the Cross,

and the 39 lashes.

You are beginning
to irritate me.

Let me tell you the rules, then.

The first rule
is that I don't fuck you,

and there isn't any discussions
about that.

Then, what do you get out of it?

That's my business, and I don't
mean to mention it again.

The second rule
is that we have no safe word,

meaning that if you,
uh, go inside with me,

there is nothing that you can say

that will make me stop
any plan or procedure.

You must bring a brown,
used leather riding crop.

And not one
from a shop selling sex toys.

It's not a masquerade.

Third rule...

If I choose to let you in,
you have to be sitting out here.

In other words, you...
you won't know when.

Only that it would be some time
between 2:00 and 6:00 at night.

I can't stay here that late.

My babysitter's not reliable,
and I can't leave my child.

You don't even know my name!

I'm not interested in your name.

Here, your name is...

Fido.

Can I help you?

I'd like to buy a riding crop.

- For what?
- For my horse.

Yes, I understand that part.
What kind of horse?

Well, it's not very big.

No, I just meant is the whip
for dressage or for jumping?

Um...

I don't know.

This is a dressage whip.

Well, it's probably
for jumping, then.

Okay. Like this?

- Is it used?
- No.

We do have used whips,
but these are not that expensive.

I prefer a used one.

Okay.

Marcel’s awake.

Do you want to say goodbye
to your mom?

Goodbye.

Fido...

I'll take your coat.

I'd like you
to have your hair up.

You can use this.

Just in case it becomes necessary
for me to hit you in the face.

Should I take my clothes off?

I'll tell you
what to do and when.

You may sit down.

Give me your hand.

I wanna see what this knot
looks like on your wrist.

Okay.

You may get up.

- Now you may bend down.
- How?

Approach the chair.

Now bend from the hips.

Look forward. Look forward.
With your head up.

Head up.
Keep looking forward.

Keep looking forward.

You may stand up.

We have to use the couch.

Come and sit.

Take it easy. Take it easy.

Bend over.

Lay your arms out straight.

Take it easy. Take it easy.

Bring your hands out straight.

Palms facing each other.

Take it easy.

Next time, don't wear knickers.

Your ass is not high enough.

I don't think
we can do this today.

What?

I'd like to see you again
on Thursday.

What's wrong?

I think we should see
how it goes on Thursday.

Hi, I can't
come to the phone right now.

Please, leave a message.

Yes, this is Marcel’s mother again.

It's now 1:30.
We had an agreement.

I hope you get this message
and come as quickly as you can.

Ah, Marcel is sleeping.

Uh... I have to go now.

Raise yourself up.

Even further.

Better.

Also so much better.
So much better.

I am now going to hit you 12 times,

no matter how much you scream

'cause no one can hear you
down here.

That's, uh, that's not how it goes.

Most people don't scream
until I hit them.

That's it.

- Thank you.
- You're very welcome.

Hello? Are you there?

It's just all so very strange.

Yes. Very, very strange.

Because I was wetter the second time.
There's no doubt about it.

I don't know where we get
our sexuality from

or where tendencies
of this kind come from.

Probably a perversion created
in our childhood

that never manifested itself before.

Well, oddly enough,
Freud says the opposite.

He talks about the polymorphic
perversion of a child,

meaning that in a child,
all kinds of perversions exist.

And then we use
the childhood to diminish

or remove some of them.

Basically, a child
is sexually polymorphic,

and everything is sexuality
in an infant.

And yet it was deeply bizarre

to lie there and especially
to want to lie there.

I felt invincible.

But mostly,
I felt like a potted plant.

Potted plant?

Yes, because he was constantly
checking my cunt juice.

The way old ladies check their potted
plant to see if they need watering.

It is an interesting point
that you actually lubricated

in expectation for a pain
that you hadn't experienced.

Your body prepared itself
for an intercourse

that you knew wouldn't happen.

I can only describe
the mood as sexual.

Despite K's immature appearance,

his methods were
surprisingly refined.

As I twisted and turned
while he was whipping me,

I could feel
how clever his knots were.

If I fought them,
they would get tighter,

and as I relaxed,
it seemed they did, too.

Hmm.

Like a cat playing with a mouse.

Fooling it to believe
it has a chance of escape

and then attacking it again.

I don't know
what kind of knot K used,

but I know of a knot that tightens
when force is exerted

and vice versa.
It's called a Prusik knot.

It's after a man called Prusik.

He was a mountain climber,

and he and a friend
were out climbing

and they had an accident,
and his friend died.

And he ended up hanging
at the end of a rope

with no possibility
of getting up.

You know, you can't climb
up a mountain climber rope.

It's too thin.

But he was an intelligent man,
and with his back to the wall,

he was a genius.

And he took the shoelaces
out of his boots

and made two loops
and affixed them to the rope.

And he could move these up

when they weren't under tension.

And then he could step into them

and climb the rope
and save himself.

Prusik.

I think this was
one of your weakest digressions.

- May I continue?
- Be my guest.

Tomorrow bring 15 small coins,
all the same.

No more, no less.

I sometimes give a Christmas present.

But uh, you have
to do the work yourself.

I'm going to show you how to do it.

This is called a blood knot.

You have to make nine ropes
with three blood knots on each.

Let me see you do it.

You decide whether
to make four, five, or six turns

on the various knots.

Let me see.

That's fine.

If you... if you start with one knot

at the top of the rope,

and then you have to put two
more knots at a distance of...

Well, between 10 and 20
centimeters to be exact,

but the most important thing
with blood knots

on the nine ropes is
that they are placed differently

and that they are staggered.

The cat-o-nine-tails
is often called

the "Captain's Daughter"
aboard ships.

The blood knot is important

because those are the ones
that break the skin and not,

as erroneously thought,
the end of the rope.

A gallows knot is also a kind of
a blood knot with many turns.

The American military standard
demanded five to 15 turns,

as it was the turns placed behind
the left ear of the delinquent

that would break the neck
of the condemned as he fell.

I'll take it from here.

Joe?

Love?

Marcel?

Marcel.

- Are you fond of me still?
- Yes.

More fond of me than the others?

- Yes?
- Yes.

You're not thinking of leaving
again tonight, are you?

- No.
- No?

- No, no. Not at all.
- You sure?

Yeah.

Are you lying to me, Joe?

- No.
- Be honest.

It's all right.
Just fucking say it.

No, I... I just want to be here.

Why?

I don't know.

If you leave tonight,

you'll never see me or Marcel
ever again in your life.

You understand?

Is this goodbye?

Is that what you're saying?

Marcel, get up.

- Stop it.
- Is that what you want?

Yeah, so you could see him.
Look at him, Joe.

Let's face it,
Joe, you're not a mother.

Let's wake him up.

Marcel, baby boy.
Say bye, Mom.

- Please, put him...
- Is this what you want?

You see?

You see, he wants you.

Come.

It's Christmas.
It's fucking Christmas.

What is this?

Today it's Madame who must wait.

Madame, I'm very sorry,

but I have to have a few words
with Fido first.

Your behavior is really
upsetting me today.

I really ought to send you home.

Happy Christmas, Fido.

- I want your cock.
- What did you say?

I want your cock.

No, you don't.
No, you don't.

What's the matter with you today?

On account of the holidays
and your behavior today,

I'm going to give you
the original Roman maximum

of 40 lashes.
Are you ready, Fido?

I'm ready.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

I'd seen through K's
knot technique,

so I was able to loosen
my position a bit

to move my pelvis
and thereby stimulate

my clitoris against the cover
of the book.

Forty.

And when you came home,
Jerome and the child were gone?

I haven't seen Marcel since.

This sentimentality...
I hate it.

- Why?
- Because it's a lie.

Are you sure?

Jerome understood
that he couldn't prioritize

his life according to a child either,

so he put him in a foster home.

My only contact to the boy
is the thousand pounds

I put in his account every month.

Anonymously.

As a penance.

Every time I leave,

I have this feeling that
when I return, you'll be gone.

And all I can hear
is the cat flap,

swinging back and forth.

Thank you. I didn't know
you had a cat flap.

I used to have a cat,

so I have a cat flap
in the door to the stairwell.

But how did it get outside?

I never thought of that.
I suppose through the basement.

The thing is...

Every time someone opens
the door to the street,

the cat flap squeaks.

There's a lot of drafts
in the house.

It hasn't squeaked yet.

No, there's not many people
coming and going.

That's a bit creepy.

No, I like it.

It's... it's peaceful.

After all this sadness, may I ask
what happened to the silent duck?

Oh, shit. The silent duck.

I'd forgotten all about it.

One night K had been
in what was for him

an unusually good mood.

I don't know what caused it,
but he didn't hit hard,

and he joked that
he would introduce me

to the concept
of the silent duck.

One hardly dare
imagine the quacking duck.

Well, deep down,

little K seems
to have been a jolly man

with versatile talents.

But he got that bit
about Roman punishment

and the 40 lashes wrong.

Because it's true that
the highest punishment

was 40 lashes, but it had to be
delivered in series of three.

That's why Jesus
only got 39 lashes

because three goes
into 39 but not into 40.

Well, I don't know about K
being jolly.

His position as a sadist

wasn't perhaps as enviable
as it might first appear.

Superficially, the sadist
acts as the decider.

But I once had a conversation
with a prostitute,

who had tried all the variations
in her field.

She wasn't surprised by anything.

And she admitted to have only
masochists.

Masochists, for her,

were the most demanding
and the most ungrateful.

First, she were
to deduce their desire

by reading their thoughts,

then perform without
any alteration from the norm,

and after which,
unlike other clients

and the most honorable sadists,
for example,

you never received any thanks,

let alone gifts or flowers.

I never went
in that direction again,

neither back to K or masochism.

But I took the orgasm with me.

You yet have to show me one
single example of maliciousness.

But that's all I'm doing!

It's as if you want
to misunderstand me.

You keep inventing
complicated and false excuses

for my despicable
and selfish actions.

During the time
when our relationship

was going downhill,
Jerome really tried his best.

I bought you something.

- You bought me something?
- I'm sure you'll love it.

- Wow, it's a ring.
- Yeah.

It's beautiful.

It was impossible
for me to work out Jerome's income.

Sometimes he had lots of money
and other times none,

which I later thought perhaps

meant that his work
was not entirely above board.

But this time
he'd really gone all out.

- That must've been so expensive.
- Well, it wasn't cheap.

- Best craftsmanship.
- Hmm.

I'll guarantee you that.

Let's play a game, then.

- A game?
- Mm-hmm. Get up.

Okay.

- It's called "Cinderella".
- I don't know it.

- You will.
- Okay.

- Right.
- No, you don't touch it.

- Okay.
- You just look at it.

Okay? Are you ready?

- Yes.
- Steady.

Steady.

- Go.
- Fuck! Joe!

Come on, Cinderella.

- Oh, fuck.
- Come on, come on.

Joe! For fuck's sake.

- Move!
- Cinderella, Cinderella!

Fuck! Are you mad, Joe?

Are you fucking mad?
Fuck! Fuck.

£7,000, Joe!

Did he find it?

Oh yes, and returned it
and got all his money back.

So can you call this game
anything other than malicious?

Let me chew on that for a while.

So it wasn't the diamond that
you're wearing around your neck?

No. But that was a gift, too.

But I have to be honest and say

I can't remember the person
who gave it to me.

I've always been in...
in the theoretical way, of course,

interested in diamonds
and their cuts.

The word "brilliant"
refers to the cut.

Diamond is the stone.

If we use the word "divine"
in connection

with the Golden Section
and Fibonacci,

the brilliant cut is nothing less.

It's a frighteningly refined cut.

Fifty-seven facets.

The theory is that the light
enters through the top plane,

which is called the table
or in some languages the mirror,

and then inside the diamond
is refracted in all the facets

and thrown out the same way,

creating a absolutely unique
light effect.

So, it's called a mirror.
I didn't know that.

You have a mirror, too.

Yeah.

It's like a thought, isn't it?

Some years later,

the bodily abuse
began to have an effect.

First, rare bleedings
from my clitoris,

but then they became
more and more frequent.

Come in.

But I really need my salary.

I know.

And I'd like to help you.

Have you heard any
of the rumors about yourself?

They say you see men
every evening

and spend all night with them.

They say you can't be trusted,
all of them.

Why do they say that?

I suppose they're afraid
that I...

I can't keep away
from their men.

Right. And can you?

No.

I've spoken with a psychologist.

He says you're addicted,

but that it's not the kind of
addiction that can't be treated.

They have some groups.

I know about these kinds
of groups.

I don't have anything
to say to a psychologist.

I'm not suggesting therapy.
I'm demanding it.

Even if you leave us,
it'll be the same at your next job

and the one after that.

Why didn't you want to speak
with a psychologist?

It's an old story.
I just don't like them.

Well, if you insist
that I try to understand,

then you have
to tell me that story as well.

The old story.

Okay. Okay.

It's not that old after all.

It was about a year after
I'd lost Marcel and Jerome.

Okay.

I'd been careless
with my birth control pills before,

and now I just didn't use them.

Didn't the
whole experience with Marcel

convince you that there was no
room for children in your life?

That's right.

I know it sounds
incomprehensible,

but actually, it was because
of my crippling fear

of becoming pregnant
that I didn't take the pills.

It's probably impossible
to understand.

No, it makes sense to me.

You were so afraid
of getting pregnant

that you repressed
the possibility of it.

You couldn't even handle
seeing the box of pills.

Okay.

Would you turn it down?

If you look at the screen
you can see your child,

but I can't tell you
the gender yet.

I don't give a shit
about the gender.

I want it removed.

Okay. Uh, you're in week eleven.

So legally, there are
no barriers for an abortion.

Yes, I know that.
Just remove it.

Well, we have some procedures
to follow.

There's nothing more
to talk about.

I can have it removed.
I want it removed.

It is a very big decision,
best not made in haste.

Didn't you understand
what I just said?

Okay, there's
an informative consultation

with our psychologist before
you can have the procedure.

You didn't really fill out the form.

Maybe you didn't have time,

uh, so I will need
to ask a few more questions.

What's the most important thing
in your life right now?

It could be many things,
your family, your friends, your...

The most important thing
for me right now

is to get an abortion.

Yes. Well, that's what
we're going to resolve together.

I need some information.

Do you love the father?

That's none of your business.

Well, it is my business
because I'm here to form

an impression
of your circumstances.

That's my job.

Okay, so what would you
most like me

to answer about the father in order
to get the fucking abortion?

That I love him,
or that I don't love him?

Or that I... I don't know him
because I fuck tons of men?

I, uh, see that
you were emotional

during the doctor's examination.

I think you're emotional.

Please, listen. This is what we call
an informative consultation.

What is it I need
to be informed of?

That you can't
stuff the kid back inside?

I already know that.

I just need to be certain

that you're completely sure
about your choice,

and my professional opinion
based on your behavior

is that clearly you're not.

I've never been more sure
in my life.

I want that fetus out right now.

And as a professional, I cannot
defend recommending an abortion

based on this conversation.

I've already had a kid!
I know what I want!

Fuck you.

There were,
of course, many ways to do it.

But I had chosen to follow
the common medical procedure

I had learnt
while studying medicine,

as it was of great importance
for me

to get the fetus out straight away
rather than wait for it

to be expelled
a couple of days later.

Clearly, the most painful part

would be the gradual opening
of the cervix,

which otherwise was always done
under anesthesia.

Say something, Pierrot.

What do you mean?

Well, you always have
so many clever things to say.

Well, I... I feel bad for you

that you had to cause yourself
so much pain.

But the... the abortion
is completely understandable.

You simply thought the child

wouldn't have
a life worth living, so...

Yeah, but the abortion in itself.

- Abortion is not murder.
- Oh, come on.

Don't fall back on false clichés
just for my sake.

I ask again,
what about the abortion?

I have no comment.

I'm a big proponent
for abortion rights,

but this is 100% female territory.

I don't believe a man
can ever comprehend

the situation or the pain.

And when it comes to the method,
I think the less said, the better.

Those are two
very interesting points of view.

First, you say that as a man,

you can't understand
a woman's feelings

with regard to abortion.

Well, that's a bit like saying
that I couldn't understand

the victims of earthquakes
because they were Chinese.

I thought we agreed that empathy

was the foundation
of all humanism.

But I can see that it's very
convenient for men

to leave all that abortion
stuff to women.

That way they don't have
to deal with the guilt

and all of the small stuff.

But your other remark
provokes me even more.

You think my method
is not worth discussing?

What enjoyment would I,
or let alone a young pregnant girl,

have from hearing
all the lurid details

about how a fetus is removed
in a clinic or any other way?

Well, then,
we're back at the discussion

about eating something
that was once alive.

Do you really think
abortion is so repugnant

if you believe
that we should know

how animals are slaughtered
in order to eat them?

Well, that's a fact
we have to live with,

even if we try to repress it.

Just as we do with abortion.

Well, you sound
like a pro-lifer from Texas.

I don't think so.

First of all, I'm just
as much a pro-choice as you are.

But on principle,

I believe that taboos
are damaging for human beings.

That's a relatively easy stance
for you to take.

One that can be misconstrued
as a...

as an argument
against pregnancy termination.

I don't want
to belittle anything,

but I can't see your abortion
as anything but a...

luxury problem.

A luxury problem?

The really serious,
serious abortions,

the ones that save lives,
far from our social spheres,

you can't endanger them
just because you

provocatively insist
on showing the gory details.

Consider all the millions
of repressed women,

the victims of rape
and incest, hunger.

All those who,
maybe thanks to an abortion,

have regained a new life,

maybe saved a child
from starving to death.

You can't harm them just because
of some principle of openness.

Luckily, I was able to get the head
of the fetus out on the first try,

but it rarely goes like that.

In the 12th week,
the diameter of the head

is a little more than
1.2 centimeters.

Therefore,
a very impressive instrument

has been developed
by the medical community.

The nutcracker is an instrument

that we use to get the fetus
out of the uterus completely.

We enter it into and through
the dilated cervical channel

and position it around the head
of the fetus,

and you crack it like a nut,

and then you pull out the fetus,
and there you have it.

That is the so-called nutcracker.

This is not something I need to know.

Oh, I hope you're not going

to be an opponent of abortion
based on that.

No, but you have to think
of the outrage

this knowledge would create
in society.

So, you're saying that people
in general are too stupid

to make decisions
on an informed basis.

And that coming from a man
who only an hour ago sermonized

about his belief
in human qualities.

No, you... you're simplifying things.

You can't look at it like that.

It's funny to see you
so emotional suddenly.

Looking back,
it rankles me a bit

that I didn't just
show up all calm and collected

at the appointment
with the psychologist

and have my abortion
under full anesthesia.

The fact is that when
you're completely under,

the fetus doesn't feel
anything either,

whereas my action, of course,
caused pain,

depending on how much consciousness

you want to ascribe
to a fetus about 12 weeks old.

I'm a bit nervous
about bringing that subject up,

as most of the abortions
in the world,

due to lack of resources,

occur just under
local anesthesia or none.

Well, you're a careful man.

Whether we talk about abortion
or not, you can't escape death,

and my fetus could have turned
out to be a fine human being,

but one that would
also eventually die.

What haunts me
is the ironic detail

that my father and I
were snail-gatherers.

We had the deepest compassion,
not to say sentimentality,

about the smallest living things
on the planet

which we demonstrated
by saving snails,

often, by the way,
the same size as my fetus,

from certain death on the path.

We did that only
when the other one wasn't watching,

as it was a bit embarrassing.

Are you picking up snails?

No.

Are you sure you weren't
picking up snails?

- Yeah.
- You're sure?

Yeah.

- Shall we drop the subject?
- Yes, please.

Are you sure
you don't want a little tour

of the technical details

of removal of organs
for organ donations?

No, thank you. I'm fine.

Where were we?

I think something about your boss
sending you to see a psychologist.

Yes, that's right.

- My name is Joe.
- Hi, Joe.

- And I'm a nymphomaniac.
- Sex addict.

My name is Joe,
and I'm a nymphomaniac.

We say sex addict.
Here, everyone's the same.

Renée, last time you
told us you had a plan.

How did it go?

I thought of trying something new,
as nothing had helped.

I thought if I overdosed...

in other words,
if I did the exact opposite

of what we are trying
to do here,

then I could get well.

You mean function normally.

I had prepared
the whole thing very carefully.

Sent my husband away
for the weekend

and had the children
taken care of.

It was to happen on the Saturday.

I had... I had collected
phone numbers for a whole month,

and then back in the coal.

They fucked me for three hours.

And how did
you feel about that?

Well, I never feel good afterwards.
I feel ashamed.

But in relation to...
to your addiction,

do you feel relieved
like you thought you would?

No.

What should I do?
I'm ready to do what's necessary.

Sex addiction
is very different from,

say, abuse of drugs or alcohol

because you don't actually need
either of those things.

These addictions can
be completely removed

by removing the drug or the alcohol,
not that that's easy.

But the difference
with sex addiction

is that everyone has a sexuality

that's an integral part
of their personality.

If one could
imagine exterminating sexuality,

then you'd be left
with a severely reduced person

because... because sexuality
also includes tenderness,

contact, solidarity with others,

which would be hard to imagine
anyone living without on some level.

What you're saying is that no one
can remove their sexuality,

even though it's destroying
everything for them.

I wouldn't say no one,

but let's say, at most,
one in a million

manage to live a life
without sexuality.

But you can't be basing your therapy
on that one in a million.

No. The first
and most important step

is to remove incentive
and to reduce exposure.

You have to ask yourself

what kind of incentives you have
and then make it difficult

for yourself to come
into contact with them.

Basically, anything that
makes you think about sex.

Stop it.

Joe has something
she'd like to share.

- My name is Joe.
- Hi, Joe.

And I'm a sex addict,

but I haven't had sex
for three weeks and five days.

Tell us how you did it, Joe.

- You brought notes?
- Yes.

Dear everyone,
don't think it's been easy,

but I understand now
that we are all alike.

- Are you okay, Joe?
- Yes, yes.

Would you like
a glass of water?

Thank you.

Would you rather share another time?

No, I'd like to speak.

Dear everyone,
don't think it's been easy,

but I understand now

that we're not
and never will be alike.

I'm not like you,
who fucks to be validated

and might just as well give up
putting cocks inside you.

You already got your bloody kick
a long time ago

when it turned out that someone
was even bothered to fuck you.

And I'm not like you.

Eat yourself to death
if you want.

I have no pity for you.

All you want is to be filled up,

and whether it's by a man
or by tons of disgusting slop

makes no difference,

because it's all just
a pathetic attempt

at filling out
your own resounding emptiness

and hiding your ridiculous
egocentric self-loathing.

And I'm definitely not like you.

That empathy you claim is a lie

because all you are
is society's morality police,

whose duty is to erase my obscenity
from the surface of the Earth,

so that the bourgeoisie
won't feel sick.

I'm not like you.

I am a nymphomaniac,
and I love myself for being one,

but above all, I love my cunt

and my filthy, dirty lust.

What just happened?

I didn't get that,
with the car that burned.

No, I'm sorry.

I was just in too much of
a hurry to get to the last chapter.

It's dawning.

How can you tell?

Oh, it's...
it's just a slight coloring.

I know because I've stood here
so often at this time.

You could say
I've developed an ability

to see dawn before everyone else.

Then you understand
what I mean when I say

that twilight suddenly appeared
at this point in my story.

I understood that society
had no room for me,

and I had no room for society
and never had.

It would've been much, much easier

to have realized that earlier on,

but suddenly,

my senses unfolded dramatically.

To go from the respectable
daylight side of society

to the shady, nocturnal side

was like changing sides in a war.

You put your old army behind you,

and suddenly, the next second,
you're swallowed by the new one.

There's no in between.

I'm sure it was quite natural for you

to furnish your room
as a monk's cell,

but as an inspiration
for this story, chapter headings

hasn't been easy.

There's simply nothing
left for me to use.

Well, I'm sorry about that.

But if I may,
I can give you a tip.

Yes, please.

You know, I occupy myself
mostly with texts,

but sometimes the text can seem so...

so empty, so unfathomably empty.

It could be the best text
by the most famous author.

The solution might be
to change your point of view.

I don't get that.

Things hide
when they become familiar.

But if you look at them
from another angle,

they might take
on a new meaning.

You're right.

Before this was just the stain
from the tea I threw.

Can you see what it could be?

A revolver!

No, a revolver has a drum
that revolves.

It's a pistol.

Can you see what kind it could be?

No, I don't remember anything
like that from my literature.

Oh, but it's something
I can remember from mine.

- Ian Fleming.
- Not familiar.

If you haven't read that,
you haven't read anything at all.

This could be,
with a little imagination,

a Walther PPK automatic,

the same gun
that was issued to Bond,

after his preferred pistol,
the Beretta, had jammed.

Is that something you can use?

Oh, yes, it is.

Whether I left
society or it left me, I cannot say.

I suppose you could make
an argument for both sides.

I was on my way
to the shady side

of the debt collecting business,
which, among other things,

involves stuff like
burning people's cars.

I had for a long time
known about this man, L.

Hi, my name is Joe.

I know that. Come in.

I'm looking for a job.

I've been working in an office,

and I was never really good at it.

I can understand that.
I mean, what's the point?

I've thought of you now and then
and wondered when you'd show up.

My lifestyle is relatively expensive,

and I need a fair amount
of free time for a sideline.

Of course.
I already know that.

I believe I possess
some qualifications

and that I'm rather unscrupulous.

I know all about your qualifications
and they're excellent.

And you have already proven you
are unscrupulous by coming here.

I would suggest that you start
your own little business

with my help.

I understand you possess
a great deal of insight

about a rather broad spectrum of men.

This could be, or should be,
capitalized on.

What should I do?

I facilitate certain assignments
for my humble firm

as part of a debt
collection business.

In other words,
I need subcontractors

who can put moderate pressure
on individuals,

with whom my clients rightly
or wrongly have a bone to pick.

- Understand?
- Extortion.

No. No, no, no, no.

I always prefer
the term "debt collection."

- Yeah.
- I refrain from judging

whether my clients' wishes
are legitimate or otherwise,

a point of view I strongly
recommend you follow.

I'm still unsure of what it is
I should do.

Well, you'll need two thugs,

and I can think of two good ones.

They both have a lot of experience
and can show you the ropes.

That's interesting.

It's not at all interesting.

Most interesting thing about it was

how easily I dedicated
myself to crime.

My main
qualification, of course,

was my considerable experience
with men and sex.

But even my more specialized
skills came in handy.

No, now this is not how it goes.

You have to wait until you're hit.

The two helpers that
L had recommended were okay,

but they were predisposed
to a rather repetitive technique,

which consisted of creating
as much havoc as possible

with a pair of iron bars.

Destroying your things doesn't
seem to have much effect on you.

The only thing
worth mentioning

from my first years
as a collector

was the story of an unusually
sober-minded,

and for that reason vulnerable, man.

The dirt I threatened
to go public with

was normally within
my core competence: sex.

But for once, here was a man
I was unable to read sexually,

so I became persistent.

Tie him to the chair.

Don't hurt him.

I can't find a stain on you,

but my experience tells me
that no man is spotless.

Luckily, you're equipped with
a very reliable truth detector.

I'm going to tell you a few stories.

All you have to do is listen.

You're in a bar watching a couple...

I now meticulously
went through the catalogue

of sexual deviations
in fictional form.

Stories about sado-masochism,

fetishism, homosexuality,
you name it.

But he didn't react.

And I'd almost given up
when I said...

On your way home,
you walk through the park.

And something makes you stop.

You hear something.

Yes, that's it.

You can hear the children
in the playground.

You sit on a bench nearby
and watch them play.

There's a little boy in shorts.

He's playing in the sandpit.

He looks at you
with his blue eyes.

He smiles at you.

I think he comes to you.

He sits on your lap
and looks up at your face.

He says he'd like
to come home with you.

At home,

you can't fight the idea
of being naked together.

He crawls all over you.

You get an erection.

Won't you please stop?

He lies on his stomach.

You pull down his pants.

I'll pay!

You did what?

I gave him a blowjob.

- Why? That pig!
- I took pity on him.

Pity?

Yes. I had just destroyed his life.

Nobody knew his secret,
most probably not even himself.

He sat there with the shame.

I suppose I sucked him off
as a kind of apology.

That's unbelievable.

No, listen to me.
This is a man who'd succeeded

in repressing his own desire,

who had never before given into it,
right up until I forced it out.

He had lived a life full of denial

and had never hurt a soul.

I think that's laudable.

No matter how much I try,

I can't find anything laudable
in pedophilia.

That's because you think
about the perhaps five percent

who actually hurt children.

The remaining 95 percent
never live out their fantasies.

Think about their suffering.

Sexuality is the strongest force
in human beings.

To be born with a forbidden
sexuality must be agonizing.

The pedophile
who manages to get through life

with the shame of his desire

while never acting on it,
deserves a bloody medal.

The writer Thomas Mann
said somewhere

that a temptation resisted

is not a sin
but a test of virtue.

Wasn't there something
about that writer and boys?

Yeah, so they say.

I suppose he dealt with it
by writing them out.

And he got a medal, a Nobel Prize.

But there was
another reason for my sympathy,

which you find so mysterious.

I saw a man who was carrying
the same cross as myself.

Loneliness.

We were both sexual outcasts.

In any case,
some years passed,

during which my business grew,

enabling me to step up my
anonymous deposits to Marcel.

Your business is doing great.

You complete all the jobs
I give you to perfection.

And I hear only words of praise
from your other clients, but...

- But what?
- We aren't getting any younger.

No, that's for sure.

I think you're getting to that age

where you have to start thinking
about a successor.

Oh, I don't need a fucking successor.

Listen.

A person should take
their crime seriously.

You need someone
to be your right hand,

someone to help you.
A crown princess.

The normal process is to find out

what colleagues are in prison,
or are drug addicts,

and thereby unable to fulfill
their roles as parents.

Then, you find out
where their kids play football,

and you get involved.

You cheer them on
for a couple of years,

no matter how bad they are.
Actually, the worse, the better.

That way, gradually, you take on
the role of the parent

until, in the end,
you have a loyal helper

that will walk through fire for you.

Even do time for you.

It sounds like a kind of
an entrapment you're suggesting.

- An unsavory entrapment.
- Call it what you want,

but if you believe at all in
the effects of good parenting,

that kid will have much greater
opportunities with you

as a mentor than without.

And since I like you,

I've been looking around
for a suitable subject.

She's 15 years old from
a family of hardened criminals,

and she's been through a lot.

Last couple of years
she's been institutionalized.

Her father's in prison
and her mother died of an overdose.

She's a smart girl.

And although
she doesn't play football,

she does play basketball very badly.

She's chosen a team sport
because she's lonely.

I saved the best part for last.

Her right ear is slightly deformed,

which she is very ashamed of,

and of course, this serves
to isolate her even more.

It makes her an easy target
for even the slightest bit

of attention
or sign of empathy from you.

Despite my protests,
the clever L somehow talked me

into actually having a look at P.

The longer I watched the poor girl
with the deformed ear,

the more repulsive
I found the whole plan.

But as if L had foreseen this,

the meeting with P filled me
with pity and emotion.

And without wanting to,

I found myself,
weekend after weekend,

at her games
supporting the poor player.

- Thanks for cheering me on.
- You're welcome.

You played really well today.

- No, I didn't.
- You did.

You really improved yourself lately.

Sixteen years. Congratulations.

- Thank you.
- You're welcome.

I was proud to introduce P

to my father's passion
and his world.

It's actually...

the souls of the trees
that we see in the winter.

I think they look like human souls.

Yeah, you're right.

They do look like human souls.

Twisted souls, regular souls,

crazy souls,

all depending on the kind
of lives human beings lead.

Then that must be
Miss Williamson from number 21.

That's not a very nice thing
to say about Miss Williamson.

But she's always angry.
She has a monster in her belly.

Well, she does have
an ulcer in her belly

that I've been treating
for the last 15 years.

And sure enough,
one of the following days

my dad dragged me
into the woods again.

I found my tree.
My soul tree.

And no, it's not that one, okay,
'cause then I would be dead.

This is my tree.

- It's not an ash tree.
- No, it's an oak tree.

It has two trunks.

Yeah, isn't it great?

It shows itself to both sides,
the lake and the forest.

But, Dad, how does
a tree get two trunks?

The most common reason
is that the top broke

when it was very young.

That means
that you've been broken once.

Have you, Dad?

It seems that it can be
rather revealing...

to find your soul tree.

My father found his soul tree,
but I've never found mine.

"You will know it when you see it,"
is what he said.

Kitchen and dining room.
And in here...

When P reached the age of maturity

and I became her personal adviser,

I asked her to move in with me.

Let me see you with your hair up.

You're so pretty.

All this time
all my sexual activity had stopped.

My groin was one big sore
from my abuse that wouldn't heal,

and made even
masturbation impossible.

I experienced definite
abstinence symptoms...

fever and cramps.

Joe, what's going on?

- Careful.
- We need to clear this up.

I just get this sometimes.

It's okay. It's okay.

Do you want to go back to bed?

Yeah. Yeah, yeah.

I love you, Joe.

I love you, too.

I don't mean it in that way.

Come on, it's late.
You should go back to bed.

Good night.

Perhaps she really loved you.

She was so very young.

Maybe she, too, discovered
her cunt at the age of two.

Maybe earlier.

I couldn't accept it.

Perhaps because you
really wanted it to be true.

Perhaps I hoped it.

It's very touching,
all this about P.

Then you've probably
misunderstood the whole thing.

Shall we get the story over
and done with?

Don't.

I wanna see you.

- Don't.
- Why?

- Please, don't.
- Why not?

No. No, I have a wound.

- I have a wound.
- It doesn't matter.

- No, you don't understand.
- I have that thing with my ear.

I'm so ashamed.

Do you like me?

You're so beautiful.

There's one thing
I don't understand.

Did she know what you did
for a living?

P was very discreet
and a girl of few words.

Oddly, although I worked
strange hours,

she never asked about my work.

But one day she had a question.

Joe.

Why did you start
coming to my basketball matches?

It wasn't a coincidence, was it?

No, it wasn't a coincidence.

I didn't tell you because I...

I thought you'd be upset...

and that you'd get angry at me.

I won't get angry.

What I do...

My job isn't a normal job.

It's not legal.

No one in my family
does anything legal.

A man that's helped me in my business
suggested that I watched you.

The plan was that I...
I should look at you

to see whether one day I could
use you in my work.

I should make friends with you

because I knew you didn't
have a mother or a father.

What's wrong with that?

Don't you see
how evil that plan was?

- I felt terrible.
- You shouldn't have.

Why not?

Because if you hadn't...

we'd never have met.

I'd like to go with you
to work next time.

No.

Will you think about it?

- No.
- Yes.

She didn't take no
for an answer.

No, of course not.

How do you keep a wave
upon the sand?

And in the throes of love,
I was weak and no match for her.

With the risk
of being too clever for myself,

social inheritance
is an irrefutable fact.

If anyone knew about the laws
of the street, it must've been P.

You're more right than you know.

- Let's shoot the fucker.
- No, no!

Stop! Stop!

We don't use firearms.

- I'd like to have the gun.
- The others have weapons, too.

Well, I didn't know that,

but in any case,
you're not to have one.

But guns aren't dangerous.

It depends on how you use them.

Yes, exactly.

I wasn't going to shoot him.

We wouldn't have gotten
any money out of him that way.

Can I have the gun?

Thank you.

You're evil.

And now I'm afraid
one of those coincidences

you have such a hard time with
occurred with a very special person.

It was P's job to take us
to the debtors,

so until I saw the name
on the door,

I had no idea
whose house we were at.

This is Acer siccharium.

- Saccharinum.
- Saccharinum, yeah, that.

I said that.

Are you sure
this is the right place?

Yeah.

I was thinking maybe it's time for
you to do this one on your own.

Yeah?

- Thank you, Joe.
- I don't want anything destroyed,

and I don't want anybody hurt.

Okay? You just show yourself and
offer him a reasonable payment plan.

If you say so, of course
that's how I'll do it.

Whether the feeling
when I saw Jerome again was love,

I couldn't say.

But it was a feeling...

and far stronger than I liked.

I was actually
walking home through the alley here.

Your two neighborhoods
are totally different,

but still so close together
that the shortest route

from Jerome's house towards
the center was through the alley.

Hello!

- How did it go?
- Brilliant.

Yeah, really well.

I made a reasonable payment plan
like you told me to.

- How did he look?
- Scared.

How old did he look?

I don't know. Ancient?

Jerome was to pay
off his debt in six payments.

Every time P
went to Jerome to collect,

I'd pace around restlessly
until she was back home again.

I even had to find my mother's
sad old solitaire cards

in order to make the hours pass.

Each night I was less reassured

by her coming home
than the night before.

The question of whether jealousy is
the fear of sharing

or the fear of losing
was of little interest to me.

But yes, it was a fact
that this unworthy feeling

I had managed to suppress
for so long was creeping up on me.

The evening she was
to collect the final payment,

she didn't kiss me.

I took it to be forgetfulness,

but the hours passed,
and she didn't return.

Every time I saw car lights,
I thought it was P being driven home.

So the next morning I took a trip

to the round hills
just outside of town

that I visited with my school class
when I was 12,

to say a symbolic goodbye.

I had decided to flee.

I couldn't stay in this town
with her and him.

I had cowardly made a plan
to escape and head south.

Like from some ice age

I didn't have the guts
to turn around and face.

But the goodbye was sad
and strangely unfulfilling.

And something called me on to
seek further up the mountain.

I understand dictators
who commit murder.

What was Hitler,
when it all boils down,

other than a man to whom society
gave free reins?

Well, that was
just what we were missing.

You understand racists,
you have a soft spot for pedophiles,

and, of course,
now at the finishing line,

you have to sympathize

with the greatest mass
murderers of history.

What I mean is...

It's said to be difficult
to take someone's life.

I would've said
that it's more difficult not to

when, as a dictator or as me,

you've nothing to lose.

For a human being,

killing is the most
natural thing in the world.

We're created for it.

Wonderful.

No, get off!

Fireman's grip.

Fill all my holes, please.

I still don't know
why the gun didn't work.

I did check to make sure that there
were bullets in the magazine.

It simply malfunctioned.

Just like Bond's Beretta.

I think I know enough to say
that even if you had rounds

in the magazine
of the Walther PPK,

if you'd taken off the safety,

you cannot shoot
until you've racked the gun.

You pull and release

the sliding mechanism.

And P hadn't done it
because as she said,

she had no intention
of shooting the man.

I don't know about Bond,
but I assume it has to be apparent

from his books and his films

that you have
to rack an automatic pistol.

Of course, you're right.

I've seen it in films
a thousand times.

It's morning.

- The snow is gone.
- So the sun must be up?

Yes, there is sun.

How can you see it?

This alley's located so that you
never get direct sunlight here,

but I can see a small reflection
on the building on the other side.

I've never managed to figure
out where it comes from.

It must be some interplay
between windows and towers

and high buildings.

It's not much, but it's the sun
you get here at my place.

It's beautiful.

In the beginning,

you said that your only sin

was that you asked
more of the sunset.

Meaning, I suppose, that you wanted
more from life than was good for you.

You were a human being
demanding your right,

and more than that,

you were a woman
demanding her right.

Does that pardon everything?

Do you think if two men were to
walk down a train looking for women,

do you think anybody would have
raised an eyebrow,

or if a man had led the life you had?

And the story about Mrs. H.
would've been extremely banal

if you'd been a man.

And your conquest
would have been a woman.

When a man leaves his children
because of desire,

we accept it with a shrug,
but you as a woman,

you had to take on a guilt,

a burden of guilt
that could never be alleviated.

Your abortion was legal,
but more than anything else,

it was a punishment
you inflicted upon yourself.

And all in all,
all the blame and guilt

that piled up over the years
became too much for you,

and you reacted aggressively,

almost like a man, I have to say,
and you fought back.

You fought back
against the gender

that had been oppressing
and mutilating and killing you

and billions of women
in the name of religion or ethics,

or God knows what.

But I wanted
to kill a human being.

But you didn't.

Because of a chance event.

You call it a chance event,

I call it subconscious resistance.

On the surface you wanted to kill,

but deep down,
you celebrated human worth

in a veil of forgetfulness

draped itself over your
knowledge of how to rack a gun.

Although all this
sounds frighteningly close

to the clichés of our times...

and I'm predisposed to knock
holes in your arguments...

I'm too tired.

Well, that's good.

Why don't you lay down?

Yes.

Let me just say that
telling my story

as you insisted, or permitted,

has put me at ease.

At this moment,
my addiction is very clear to me.

And I've come to a decision.

Even though only one in a million,
as my dubious therapist said,

succeed in mentally,

bodily,

and in her heart

ridding herself
of her sexuality...

this is now my goal.

But is that a life worth living?

It's the only way I can live it.

I will stand up against all odds...

just like a deformed tree on a hill.

I will muster
all of my stubbornness...

my strength...

my masculine aggression.

But most of all I want
to say thanks

to my new and maybe first friend.

Thank you, Seligman...

who perhaps is happy
when all is said and done.

I'm happy at any rate

that the shot didn't go off

and made me a murderer.

If I may, I'd like to sleep now.

I'll make sure
you won't be disturbed.

And when you wake up,
maybe we could

discuss your future if you'd like.

In your new life,

would you consider
seeking out your son?

It's possible.

Good night, Joe.

Good night, Seligman.

No!

But you,
you fucked thousands of men.