Nymphomaniac: Vol. II Page #3

Well, of course it won't work.

Sparkplug caps have been removed.

Yes, I did that.

Was that wrong?

For the first time I had

the pleasure of having

an 8-cylinder car.

The possible combinations

of eight spark-plug caps

on eight spark plugs are 40,320,

if I remembered 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...

But he was such a visionary

that the old Bach purists,

they accused him of

not mastering it.

Good day?

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.

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 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 master

the African languages.

I do have a basis.

Who and what needs interpretation?

Um, that man...

The one with the green jacket?

You are to ask him if he

wants to have sex with me.

Yeah? Um...

Is it a go?

It's hard to say.

I've written down the

time and the 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.

Very sorry.

Sorry sorry sorry.

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,

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