“Slow shifting of realities and the distortion of the initial situation.” Janka Oertel

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“What is a deception when it becomes real?” Helena Janeczek

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“Before the killing begins, the riot looks like a party.” Stephen Marche

The Cliffs of Dúnmara

The evening sun flooded the harbor basin, turning boats, seagulls, and bollards into silhouettes. A display of anchor statues, lined with green, caught the light. We stepped into Bella’s Place. Table lamps, glinting glass, muted voices.

Lavender and sage.

The waitresses wore uniforms that were more than mere service attire. The black-and-white combinations evoked the 19th-century maid’s style. The white Peter Pan collars added a touch of contemporary finesse. White hair ribbons completed the visual order, revealing more about the house than any menu could. They moved silently between the tables.

The maître d’hôtel, a woman with a sleek gray bob, quirky shell earrings, and a beige blazer of Prussian severity, led us to a table by the panoramic window.

The pulling out of chairs—so stately it felt like a staged performance.

Dúnmara, on the Beara Peninsula in the province of Munster on Ireland’s west coast. The province’s name derives from the Celtic goddess Muma. The nearly car-free hamlet was perfect for us. Jagged cliffs, emerald-green sea, enchanted gardens, medieval ruins, the occasional horse-drawn carriage, almost no light pollution—Dark Sky Island, ideal for stargazers, quirky shops for even erotic detours, heather and marshland… coves that hide from the world.

We had checked into a slightly crooked guesthouse, tucked into a mossy garden… floral curtains, a well-worn armchair whose springs stretched dangerously under the upholstery. On the nightstand, a seafaring oil lamp held a glowing bulb, next to a chipped porcelain cup serving as a lavender vase. Afternoon light slanted through a window perhaps glazed in the century before last. It smelled of wood, salt, stone, and persistent dampness.

I stood before the half-blind mirror.

“Did you know that Dúnmara was ruled by a Seigneur until the 19th century? A feudal lord, like in the Middle Ages?”

You drew me gently toward you.

“No wonder. Time here follows a different rhythm.”

We conquered every new place with our play. We inaugurated it with our desire.

Later we walked along sandy paths, past low stone walls and swaying wildflowers. Seagulls cried over the cliffs, the sea roared, waves breaking. They reached a ridge—a wind-tossed crossing, the rock dropping sharply on either side. I braced myself against a railing.

“Imagine,” you said, “people used to cross here on foot. No railing. With children and donkeys.”

The wind shredded all human precautions.

That evening in the room, I came across a book by Clarice Lispector, But It Will Rain, stories, from the Brazilian Portuguese by Luis Ruby, edited by Benjamin Moser, Penguin.

Clarice Lispector tells of an shameless bigamist. Xavier has the power to win over his milieu. An overwhelming, some say diabolical force that literally makes the man boil is enough to give him an dispens to the neighborly moral code. Xavier is allowed to do what others can only dream of.

The impartiality with which Lispector approaches the matter is immediately fascinating.

“Every night it was one’s turn. On some days twice a night. The one left over watched. They were not jealous of each other.”

Lispector does not problematize the standard role program. As long as Xavier’s excitement remains tied to his housewives Carmem and Beatriz, the narrative supervision appreciates what is happening. The Trio Infernal loves opulence. They celebrate opulence in bed and at the table. Gigantic meals are as exhausting as the lovemaking.

Everything is there in abundance: sex, food... and yet it is not enough for Xavier to choose between his housewives Carmem and Beatriz, who love him and even adore him. Instead, he also takes advantage of the favor of a sex worker whose covert involvement has a toxic effect. The poison seeps into the bubble of trust.

Xavier misunderstands theLast Tangoin Paris. He doesn’t realize that Marlon Brando is playing a desperate man.

At least that’s what Lispector claims.

“He didn’t understand the movie. He saw it as a sex movie. It didn’t occur to him that it was the story of a desperate man.”

The movie has long since reached its critical mark. If I remember correctly, Bernardo Bertolucci apologized on this matter, too late of course. No eulogist today will still insist on his praise from back then. Wikipedia preserves anachronistic perspectives. Dietrich Kuhlbrodt explained in 1982:

“What Bertolucci is attempting with theLast Tangois an obsessive approach to an audience that is used to seeing Hollywood films and also gets to see a Hollywood star ... The film is as direct as the address of Francis Bacon’s pictures.”

The German news magazine “Spiegel” already spoke of “late outrage” in 2016. The article recounts the butter scene. It is about the uncoordinated simulation of anal sex. The magazine quotes the director, who said in 2013:

“I had the idea with Marlon, the morning before filming. But in a way I behaved very badly towards Maria because I didn’t tell her what was going to happen. I wanted her reaction as a girl, not as an actress.”

“To all the people who love this film,” tweeted ... actress Jessica Chastain, “you are watching a 19-year-old being raped by a 48-year-old man. The director planned this attack. I feel sick.”

Lispector does not problematize any of this. Her Xavier comes across as a “wild and hot-blooded bigamist.” His wives Carmem and Beatriz make each other witnesses of a love without jealousy. They cook like in the “Big Feast”. The author portrays the generous ones as the ones who have been cheated on. Xavier also uses the services of a sex worker.

The couple in the trio feel their intimacy is being disturbed. The women form an erotic team that gets its money’s worth even without Xavier. They complement each other according to the statutes of a feminist harem. They cook for each other and go to bed with sexual intentions, excluding their pasha.

Xavier’s women make each other witnesses of a love without jealousy. They cook like in a “big feast” for their “hot-blooded, wild” husband.

Carmem and Beatriz serve each other.

Carmem “prepares breakfast ... with spoonfuls of thick cream, and (brings) it to Beatriz and Xavier in bed”. Then she joins the pampered ones and they stay in bed together until three o’clock in the afternoon. Beatriz prepares a late lunch in a collegial manner, as always as part of an effective love partnership. Two chickens stuffed with manioc flour, raisins and almonds are put on the table, “everything juicy and tasty”. The women share a chicken. You don’t need to know any more than that. Carmem and Beatriz want Xavier to be a stupid, magnificent rooster on the farm of their needs.

Fuck, eat, pray ... To end the evening nicely, the three go to a church. Lispector compares the performance to Ravel’s Bolero.

Xavier works himself to death to keep the business running. His wives buy “nightgowns that are full of sex”.