All language subtitles for Il Postino

No, there's no water, Dad.

It's all gone,
since this morning.

I wanted to rinse
my hands, too.

All gone.

Is it still warm?

I've got the sniffles
this morning!

It must have been the dampness
on the boat.

I only have to set foot
on that boat--

Perhaps I'm allergic.

Even if the boat's not moving,
the dampness gets to me.

I don't know how you can
stay on it all night...

and not catch a thing.

The minute I get on--

I've received a postcard
from America, Dad...

from Gaetano and Alfredo.

This is America
around the outside...

and this is an American car.

They say they're
going to buy one, too.

It's written here:
''We're buying one.''

But I think they're joking...

because they cost
a load of money.

But they say
it's a rich country...

where there's work, a country--

And we're still here...

without water...

while they're--

Forget it, never mind.

Listen, Mario,
you've never like fishing.

I've caught a chill.

Go to America or Japan
if you want to...

but get yourself a job.

You're not a kid anymore.

''The poet, Pablo Neruda, in Rome.''

Central Station.

A group of rowdy people
has inconvenienced the travellers...

who crowd the station platforms
every day.

These protesters...

are not drunkards...

nor the usual hotheads
who protest just for the fun of it.

They are a group of intellectuals,
writers and journalists.

Why have they joined
together, shouting...

disturbing the police
and Carabinieri?

The mystery is revealed
when the train arrives.

Pablo Neruda gets out
at Rome station...

the Chilean poet known throughout
the world for his poetry...

and his communist ideas which
have often got him into trouble...

and for which
he has now been exiled.

The poet appears to be
well-loved in Italy...

and, judging by the enthusiastic
embrace of this woman...

not only for his moral gifts.

Women go crazy for his poetry...

maybe because Neruda
writes love poems...

a topic which appeals
to the female sensibility.

But let's go back
to our noisy crowd.

The Home Office
has accepted their protest...

by suspending the measures
against Neruda...

requested by
the Chilean government.

The poet will remain
in ItaIy...

on a wonderful island.

He will not be able to leave
without police authority...

but the island's beauty
will make exile easier.

That's me!

The poet will have happy memories
of Italy and her government...

which is hosting him in a place
which will remind him of home.

This cozy house
surrounded by nature...

will certainly make him
feel at home.

''Wanted: Temporary Postman
with Bicycle''

You, Anita Scotto,
are the sender.

This is your son's name, right?

I've come about the job.

Right, wait.
And this is the city.

Are you sending him capers?

He'll be pleased.

Are you illiterate?

No, I can read and write.

Not very fast, but--

Sit down.

I need someone to deliver mail
to Cala di Sotto.

That's great.
I live there.

There's only one addressee.

Only one?

Everyone else there is illiterate.

I'm not illiterate, but still--

Well, then.

It's all mail
for signor Pablo Neruda.

The poet loved by women?

The poet loved by the people!

By the people, but also by women.

I heard it on the newsreel.

All right, but most of all
by the people. He's a communist.

Right?

The poet has received a mountain
of mail these last two days.

Pedalling with the bag is like
carrying an elephant on your back.

I'll wait here.

I'll be right with you.

The wage is a pittance, you know.

Postmen make do with their tips.

But with only one house...

at most it'll pay for
your cinema once a week.

- That's fine.
- It suits you anyway.

My name's Giorgio.

I'm your superior,
and you shouId call me sir.

But I won't hold you to it,
because I'm a communist, too.

And remember...

the poet...

is a great and kind person.

He deserves respect.

You say hello, you thank him.

If he tips you,
you thank him again.

- Right?
- Yes, right.

This is your hat.

This is your bag.

Today's the 15th.
Your first payday's the 27th.

When do you start?

Monday morning.
6:45, I open the shutters.

Then the public comes later.

Are you in uniform already?

No, I'm just wearing the hat.

That way it'll
take its shape better...

or I'll get a headache
wearing it all day.

The boss told me
it's a postman's trick.

A little trick of ours.

Good morning.

Your mail.

Thank you.

Another one from a female.

Female.

Maria Conchita, female.

Angela, female.

Jean Marie, is that
male or female?

- Female!
- I knew it!

This one, too.

Even the women are interested
in politics in Chile!

I know, but all females--

How come?

Listen...

but what's Don Pablo...

like?

- Is he normal?
- As a person, as--

Normal. Of course,
he talks differently.

You can tell immediately from--

Know what he calls his wife?
''Amor''!

Even if he's standing far away...

they call each other ''amor.''

- Really?
- He's a poet.

That's how you can tell.

Female.

Excuse me...

if you happen to need anything...

milk, bread, I can--

No, thank you.

Matilde goes shopping every day.

If ever she doesn't want to go out,
you can ask me. I come and go.

We don't need anything.
Thanks anyway.

I mean, if by any chance--

And remember, Mario...

you mustn't bother him
with a lot of questions.

It's forbidden to annoy customers
with strange requests.

I know, I won't annoy him.

I'll only ask him
to sign this book, that's all.

So when I get paid,
I'll go to Naples...

and show all the girls...

that I'm a friend of Neruda,
the poet of love!

The poet of the people!

Excuse me, couId you sign it?

PIease, couId you sign it?

Would you make
it unique, maestro?

Would you make
it unique, maestro?

My name's Mario Ruoppolo.

- And my mail?
- There isn't any.

Come on, Mario, you should be happy.

Happy?

I told him quite cIearly,
Mario Ruoppolo.

''Regards, Pablo Neruda.''

It means nothing.

You don't think he can cross
it out and write it better...

so you can see it's for me,
that we're friends?

Do you think he'd cross it out
because you don't like it...

and write you another?

Perhaps he did it on purpose
because you bothered him.

No, I asked him.
He was staring at the mountain.

- Exactly, you see?
- No, I know the mountain...

but he was holding an onion.

So you think a poet can't think
when he's holding an onion, eh?

When am I supposed
to ask him then...

if I can't ask him
when he's peeling an onion?

He's a busy man.

He can't be running after people
to make them happy.

Yes, but he's a communist.

So what?

Didn't you say that
communists love the people?

Mario, don't make me annoyed!

I bought a copy of the book.

When you have the chance...

with extreme tact...

ask him if he would sign it for me.

Sign it?

Take this one then.
''Regards, PabIo Neruda.''

No, this is yours.
He signed it for you.

- I'm happy to let you have it.
- No!

Mr. Di Cosimo, shall
I empty all the water?

All of it, all of it.

'Morning.

Mr. Di Cosimo...

what can I do to thank you?
Your wreath was the nicest.

Nothing, Donna Rosa.
Just vote and get others to vote.

Remember to use
that llttIe pencil of yours.

And hopefully some
of your customers will, too.

''...happens that I go into the
tallors' shops and the movies...

all shriveled up...

impenetrable, llke a felt swan...

navigating on a water
of origin and ash.

The smell of barber shops
makes me sob out loud...

I am tired of being a man...''

Mail.

What's the matter?

Don Pablo?

You're standing
as stiff as a post!

Nailed like a spear?

No, immobile like the castle
on a chess board.

Stiller than a porcelain cat.

Elementary Odes isn't
the only book I've written.

I've written much better.

It's unfair of you to shower me
with similes and metaphors.

Don Pablo?

Metaphors.

What are those?

Metaphors?

Metaphors are--
How can I explain?

When you talk of something,
comparing it to another.

Is it something...

you use in poetry?

Yes, that too.

For example?

For exampIe...

when you say, ''the sky weeps,''
what do you mean?

That it's raining.

Yes, very good.

- That's a metaphor.
- It's easy then!

Why has it got such
a complicated name?

Man has no business with...

the simplicity
or complexity of things.

Excuse me, Don Pablo,
then I'll go.

I was reading something
yesterday:

''The smell of barber shops
makes me sob out loud.''

Is that a metaphor, too?

No...

not exactly.

I llked it, too, when...

when you wrote:

''I am tired of being a man.''

That's happened to me, too...

but I never knew how to say it.

I really liked it when I read it.

Why ''the smell of
barber shops makes me sob''?

You see, Mario...

I can't tell you...

in words different
from those I've used.

When you explain it,
poetry becomes banal.

Better than any explanation...

is the experience of feelings
that poetry can reveal...

to a nature open enough
to understand it.

Will you open this, please?

- Who, me?
- Yes.

- Shall I open it?
- Yes!

My hands are dirty.

It's written in--

It's foreign.

Is it more important
than the others?

Yes, it's from Sweden.

What's so special about Sweden?

The Nobel Prize for Literature.

A prize then?

If they give it to me,
I won't refuse.

Why?

How much money is it?

171,135 Swedish krona.

I've no idea, is that a lot?

Lots and lots!

Then you'll get it.

There are candidates with
a better chance than me this year.

Why?

Because they've
written important works.

No...

you'll get it, I'm sure.

Thank you.

Shall I open the other letters?

No, I'll read them later.

Are they Iove letters?

What a question!
Don't let Matilde hear you.

I'm sorry, Don Pablo.
I only meant--

I'd like to be a poet, too.

No, it's more originaI
being a postman.

You get to walk a lot
and don't get fat.

We poets are all fat.

Yes, but...

with poetry...

I could make women fall for me.

How--

How do you become a poet?

Try and walk sIowly along
the shore as far as the bay...

and look around you.

And will they come to me,
these metaphors?

Certainly.

Mario, can you send someone to see
about this probIem of water?

Have you got water?

No, that's exactly the problem.

That's no problem at all!

Why? Is it normal?

It's normaI.

You've run out of water...

up at the cistern.

Do you use a lot of water?

No, just what I need.

Then that's too much.

Because...

it runs out all of a sudden
because the water-supply ship...

comes only once a month,
so the water gets used up.

We've got-- They've been saying
we'll get running water...

for ages.

''You'll have running water.'' But--

And you don't protest?

What do we say?

My father swears every so often...

but... only to himself.

There are people who, with a strong
will, manage to change things.

It's a pity.

This place is so beautiful!

Think so?

Yes. Sit down.

Here on the island, the sea...

so much sea.

It spills over from time to time.

It says yes, then no...

then no.

In blue, in foam, in a gallop...

it says no, then no.

It cannot be still.
My name is sea, it repeats...

striking a stone
but not convincing it.

Then with the seven green tongues
of seven green tigers...

of seven green seas...

it caresses it, kisses it, wets it...

and pounds on its chest,
repeating its own name.

Well?

What do you think?

It's weird.

What do you mean, weird?

- You're a severe critic.
- No, not your poem.

Weird...

Weird...

how I felt while
you were saying it.

How was that?

I don't know.

The words went back and forth.

- Like the sea then?
- Exactly.

- Like the sea.
- There, that's the rhythm.

I felt seasick, in fact.

Because...

I can't explain it. I felt like...

like a boat tossing
around on those words.

Like a boat tossing
around on my words?

Do you know what you've done, Mario?

- No, what?
- You've invented a metaphor.

- Yes, you have!
- Really?

But it doesn't count
because I didn't mean to.

Meaning to is not important.

Images arise spontaneously.

You mean then that...

for example,
I don't know if you follow me...

that the whole world...

the whole world,
with the sea, the sky...

with the rain, the clouds--

Now you can say etc., etc.

Etc., etc.

The whole world is
the metaphor for something else?

- I'm talking crap.
- No, not at all.

Not at all.

You pulled a strange face.

Mario, let's make a pact.

I'll have a nice swim...

and ponder your question.

Then I'll give you
an answer tomorrow.

- Really?
- Yes, really.

Don Pablo, good morning.

I've got to talk to you.

It must be very important.
You're snorting like a horse.

It's very important.

- I've fallen in love.
- Nothing serious. There's a remedy.

No, no remedy!

I don't want a remedy.
I want to stay sick.

I'm in love,
really, really in love.

Who are you in Iove with?

Her name's Beatrice.

Dante.

Dante Alighieri.

He fell for a certain Beatrice.

Beatrices have
inspired boundless love.

What are you doing?

Writing down the name Dante.

Dante I know, but Alighieri--

- Has it got an ''h'' in it?
- Wait, I'll write it for you.

Thank you.

I'm madly in love.

You've already told me that,
but what can I do about it?

I don't know, if you can help--

But I'm an old man.

I don't know, because...

I suddenly saw her in front of me.

I stared at her,
but I couldn't utter a word.

What, you didn't
say anything to her?

Not much.

- I watched her and fell in love.
- Just like that? In a flash?

No, I stared at her
for ten minutes first.

And she?

And she said...

What's up,
never seen a woman before?

What's your name?

Beatrice Russo.

And you?

I couldn't think of anything to say.

Nothing at all?

- You didn't say a word?
- Not exactly nothing.

I said five words to her.

Which were?

I said, ''What's your name?''

- And she?
- And she: ''Beatrice Russo.''

''What's your name?'' are three words.
And the other two?

Then I repeated Beatrice Russo.

Don Pablo, if--

I don't want to bother you, but...

can you write me
a poem for Beatrice?

I don't even know her!

A poet needs to know
the object of his inspiration!

I can't invent something
out of nothing.

I've got this little ball...

which Beatrice put in her mouth.
She's touched it.

So what?

It might help you.

Look, Poet...

if you make all this fuss
over one poem...

you're never going
to win that Nobel Prize!

Mario, pinch me and wake me
from this nightmare!

What am I supposed to do?

No one else can help me.
They're all fishermen here!

What am I supposed to do?

Fishermen fall in love, too!

They are able to talk
to the girls they love...

to make them fall in love, too,
and marry them.

- What does your father do?
- He's a fisherman.

Naturally!

He must have spoken to your mother
to get her to marry him.

I don't think so.
He doesn't talk much.

Come on, give me my mail.

Thank you, but I don't want it.

- Do you want something eIse?
- No, thanks.

Beatrice, your smile
spreads llke a butterfly.

Fallen out of bed this morning?

I came earlier because...

I saw this.
It looks important.

You're right, it is important.

And then...

there's something else...

I've been meaning to give you
but kept forgetting.

- I'll put it here. Good-bye.
- Wait a minute.

I've got something for you, too.

Here.

It might be useful
for your metaphors.

Is it a radio?

No, but it's a kind of radio.

You speak into here...

and this repeats what you say.

You speak into it
and it repeats what you say?

Yes.

- How many times?
- As many times as you want.

But you mustn't exaggerate.

Even the most sublime idea
seems foolish if heard too often.

Listen.

Good news?

When I was Senator
of the Republic...

I went to visit Pampa...

a region where it only rains
once every 50 years...

where life
is unimaginably hard.

I wanted to meet the peopIe
who had voted for me.

One day...

at Lota, there was a man
who had come up from a coal mine.

He was a mask
of coal dust and sweat...

his face...

contorted by terrible hardship...

his eyes red from the dust.

He stretched out
his calloused hand and said:

''Wherever you go...

speak of this torment.

Speak of your brother
who lives underground...

in hell.''

I feIt I had to write something
to help man in his struggIe...

to write the poetry
of the mistreated.

That's how ''Canto General''
came about.

Now my comrades...

tell me they have managed to
get it published secretly in Chile...

and it's selling like hot cakes.

That makes me very happy.

I told them I'm here with
a friend who wishes to say hello.

And tell them something nice
about this beautifuI country.

Yes.

- Good morning.
- No, in there.

Something nice about the isIand?

Yes, one of the wonders
of your island.

Now Iet's go to the inn...

and meet this famous
Beatrice Russo.

Are you joking?

No, I'm serious.

Let's have a look at this girlfriend.

Mamma mia!

Pablo Neruda and Mario Ruoppolo
at the inn.

She'll faint!

Well? What is it now?

Don Pablo, when I get married
to Beatrice Russo...

will you be my best man?

Listen...

first Iet's have a drink,
then we'll decide.

Gennarino, wait! I'm coming, too!

Domenico, come here
or I'll thrash you!

Look who's here. Neruda!

Good morning.

What will it be?

A glass of red wine, please.

And the pinball king?

- Do you want red wine, too?
- Red wine, yes.

Two glasses of red wine
and a pen to write with.

He's here for your niece.

Give me the notebook.

Notebook? Why?

Just a moment.

''To Mario, my intimate friend
and comrade - Pablo Neruda''

There you are.

You already have your poetry.

If you want to write it down,
here's your notebook.

Thank you.

What is it?

Go home. It's closing time!

I won't make you pay for the bottle,
but go home. We're closing.

- What are you doing?
- I'm thinking.

With the window open?

Yes, with the window open.

Be honest with me.
What did he tell you?

Metaphors.

Metaphors?

Never heard such big words
from you before.

What metaphors did he do to you?

Did? He said them!

He said my smile spreads
across my face llke a butterfly.

- And then?
- I laughed when he said that.

Your laugh is a rose...

a spear unearthed, crashing water.

Your laugh is
a sudden silvery wave.

Then what did you do?

I kept quiet.

And he?

- What else did he say?
- No, what did he do?

Your postman, as well as a mouth,
has two hands!

He never touched me.

He said he was happy
to be next to a pure young woman.

Like being on the shores
of the white ocean.

I like it--

I like it when you're silent...

because it's as though
you're absent.

And you?

And he?

He looked at me, too,
then he stopped looking at my eyes...

and began to look at my hair...

without a word,
as though he were thinking.

Enough, my child!

When a man starts
to touch you with words...

he's not far off with his hands.

There's nothing wrong with words.

Words are the worst things ever.

I'd prefer a drunkard
at the bar touching your bum...

to someone who says,
''Your smile flies like a butterfly''!

It ''spreads'' like a butterfly!

Flies, spreads,
it's the same thing!

Just look at you!

One stroke of his finger,
and you're on your back.

You're wrong.
He's a decent person.

When it comes to bed,
there's no difference...

between a poet, a priest
or even a communist!

''Naked...

you are as simple
as one of your hands...

smooth, terrestrial, tiny...

round, transparent.

You have moon-lines, apple paths.

Naked, you are as thin
as bare wheat.

Naked, you are blue
like a Cuban night.

There are vines and stars
in your hair.

Naked, you are enormous
and yellow...

like summer in a gilded church.''

Good morning, Father.

I found this in her brassiere.

I want you to read it to me.

I'm not letting her
out of the house for now.

Well?

It's a poem.

Read it to me!

''Naked...

Madonna!

What are the nets like?
Mario, I need an adjective.

Nets-- Which nets?
Fishing nets?

Yes.

Sad.

Sad.

All right?

Good morning, signora.

- WouId you like--
- Yes.

PIease, sit down.

No. What I want to say is
too serious to say sitting down.

What is it about?

For over a month...

Mario Ruoppolo has been
hanging around my inn...

and he has seduced my niece.

- What did he say?
- Metaphors.

Well?

He's heated her up
llke an oven with his metaphors.

A man whose only capital
is the fungus between his toes!

And if his feet are full of germs,
his mouth is full of spells.

It started off innocently enough:
''Her smile was llke a butterfly.''

But now he's saying her breast
is like a fire with two flames.

But do you think...

that these images are only
his imagination or that--

Yes, I think he's had
his hands on her.

Read this.
It was in her brassiere.

''Naked--

As beautifuI as--

Naked, you're as delicate
as nights on an island...

and stars in your hair--''

It's beautiful!

So he's seen my niece naked!

No, signora Rosa!

Nothing in this poem
leads us to think that.

The poem's telling the truth.

My niece naked is just
as the poem describes her.

So do me a favor
and tell Mario Ruoppolo...

who has learnt a lot from you...

that he must never see my niece
again for the rest of his life.

And tell him that if he does,
I'll shoot him.

- Is that clear?
- Yes.

Good day.

You're as white as a sack of flour.

I might be white outside,
but inside I'm red.

You won't save yourself
from the widow's fury with adjectives.

If she harms me, she'll go to jail.

She'll be out in a couple of hours.

She'll say she acted
out of self-defense.

She'll say you threatened
the virginity of her damsel:

with a metaphor
hissing like a dagger...

as sharp as a canine,
as lacerating as a hymen.

The poetry will have left
the mark of its seditious saliva...

on the virgin's nipples.

The poet Francois Villon
was hung from a tree for much less...

and his blood gushed
from his neck like roses.

I don't care. She can do
what she wants. I'm ready.

Good lad! It's a real shame
we haven't got...

a trio of guitarists to go...

My dear poet and comrade...

you got me into this mess,
you've got to get me out of it.

You gave me books to read...

you taught me to use my tongue
for more than licking stamps.

It's your fault if I'm in love.

No, this has nothing to do with me.

I gave you my books...

but I didn't authorize you
to steal my poems.

If you think you gave Beatrice
the poem I wrote for Matilde--

Poetry doesn't belong to those
who write it, but those who need it.

I appreciate that highly
democratic sentiment.

Now go home and get some sleep.

You've bags under your eyes
as large and deep as soup bowls.

This is for you.
Vote for Di Cosimo.

They promised us running water...

on the island two years ago, too.

Two years ago, it wasn't
Di Cosimo who promised you.

What's written on that paper
is a pledge, not a promise.

An oath, and God is my witness.

Hey, Mario!

Aren't you interested
in what I'm saying?

I'm voting communist.

What?

I'm voting communist.

I hear you've
gone crazy about poetry.

I hear you're competing
with Pablo Neruda.

But remember, poets can do
a lot of damage to people.

- How much do these clams cost?
- 300 lire to you.

For that price you'll have to
guarantee me a pearl in each one.

- Give me a good price.
- I'll give you a discount, all right?

Fishermen are exploited
enough as it is.

He said 300 lire.
Why shouId he give you a discount?

I don't mean to exploit anyone.
Good-bye.

Why don't you mind
your own business?

I was trying to help.

Mario...

as your superior I must order you
to deliver the undelivered mail.

Yes, yes, yes.

But you're still
moping after that girl.

Beatrice is pretty now...

but in 50 years
she'll be as ugly as the rest.

Beatrice will never be ugly.

I held the splendor of your eyes...

secretly within me,
blissfuI Beatrice.

What's Beatrice got to do with it?

It's a poem.

Dante Alighieri--

No, Gabriele D'Annunzio, my poet.

Your poet wrote something
for Beatrice?

I don't llke it.

Strange, I thought you'd
appreciate a hymn to Beatrice.

Thank you. Good-bye.

- Sleeping Beauty...
- Good evening.

Good evening. Give the Marshal
his usual, and pour one for me, too.

Thank you.

Your niece gets
more and more beautiful.

If you only knew how difficult
it is to keep a hold on her.

Young people today
aren't what they used to be.

They have everything
and want the moon.

I remember my poor departed mother.
I'd tremble whenever she spoke.

Good night, Aunt.
Good night, Marshal.

Good night, Marshal.

Find yourselves a decent person
who isn't a communist.

If Neruda doesn't believe in God,
why should God believe in Neruda?

What sort of witness would he be?

God never said a communist
can't be a witness at a wedding.

I'm not getting married then.

You're more interested in Neruda
as a witness than me as your wife.

My darling...

Neruda's a Catholic.

I know he's a Catholic.

In Russia, communists eat babies.
How can he be Catholic?

He doesn't look the type.

Neruda has a pretty wife.

He's getting on
and he has no children.

How do you explain that?

So according to you,
Don Pablo ate his kids?

Who knows?

Anyway, my answer's no,
for your sake, too.

He inspired your bridegroom
to write that filthy naked stuff.

That was only a poem.

Not to mention the rest.

He's not worthy of being witness
to your happiness.

She'd say:

''I ask Jesus to let me live
to see my son with a job...

a wife and children in his arms.''

UnfortunateIy, she didn't make it...

because when the Lord
called her to Him...

he didn't even have a job.

Today, from heaven my poor wife
will see that he's made her happy...

because at least he's got
a wife and a little job.

Even if it's not the job
she'd have wanted for him--

All the best!
Well done, Dad!

What are you doing, drinking wine?

I'm sorry, Comrade, I forgot.
This came for you.

Thank you.

- Good news?
- To the newlyweds!

With a chaste heart...

with pure eyes...

I celebrate your beauty...

hoIding the leash of blood
so that it might leap out...

and trace your outllne...

where you lie down in my ode
as in a land of forests, or in a surf:

in aromatic loam or in sea music.

Now...

I'd like to toast my friend...

Mario...

and say what a pleasure it was for me
to participate, in a small way...

to his happiness.

And lastly, I'd like to say
that on this very special day...

I have received
some wonderfuI news.

The warrant for our arrest...

has been revoked...

and therefore
Matilde and I can now...

return to the country
we love so much:

Chile.

No, Don Pablo.

But you'll be unemployed tomorrow.

No, I don't want anything.

I'll miss you.

I'll miss you.

But you will write to me?

Of course.

Things change
all the time in my country.

Today they'll let me go back.

Tomorrow something else will happen
and I'll have to flee again.

I'll leave some things
here anyway...

if you couId keep
an eye on it for me.

I'll let you know where to send them.

Perhaps I'll bring them
to Chile myseIf.

That'd be wonderful.

Do you need this?

Yes.

Thank you.

I've discovered another poet
who wrote about Beatrice...

called D'Annunzio.

I know.

So you could have written one, too.

Good-bye.

- What is it?
- Look at this.

He's in Russia, giving an award.

In Russia? If he's over here,
he might pay a visit.

He's a very busy man, Mario!

He must meet the people
he didn't see when he was in exile.

And he's also well-loved in Chile.

He won't have time to come here.

It's a good picture.

- The young poet, Mllovan--
- Perkovic.

Awarded a poetry prize
by the maestro.

- Can I keep it?
- No, you can't.

I'll put it in here
with all the rest.

You can look at it
whenever you like.

Vote for Di Cosimo.

The candidate promises
to lead us on a new path!

Vote for Di Cosimo!
For a new way of life!

For the sake of our island!

Did that fellow come here?

- Who?
- Di Cosimo.

Yes.

Why are you smiling?

Di Cosimo has served us
a fortune on a silver platter.

Really?

20 families will be coming here
to work on the new water mains.

Di Cosimo asked us if we can
provide them with two meals a day.

And we can't.

We told them we could.
They'll be here for two years.

- Without asking me?
- Just add it all up.

Money.

All you can think about is money.

Where will we put 20 families?

We'll do two or three servings
if necessary!

PIease yourselves.

No, we'll do as we please.

Would you be prepared to work
in the kitchen, ''signor'' husband?

In the kitchen?

Yes.

A toast to Beatrice,
the prettiest girl in town!

Look!

- What does it say?
- He's in Paris.

''Whereas I really loved ItaIy...

where I led a happy life
in complete solitude...

and among the most simpIe
people in the world.''

''What things are you
most nostalgic about?''

''Nostalgia is an emotion I can feeI
onIy for my own country...

but I will never forget...

my strolls along the beach
and among the rocks...

where tiny pIants and flowers grow...

exactly the same way
as in a large garden composition.''

Go on.

That's it.

He doesn't mention us.

Why should he mention us
in an interview?

He's a poet.
Poets taIk about nature...

not about the people they meet.

The bird that has eaten flies away!

I bet he doesn't even remember
what we look like.

The Christian Democrats have been
victorious in every region.

The party chairman
has expressed his satisfaction.

Satisfaction!

They haven't managed it.

What? They've taken
every region in ItaIy.

They can't do anything
with a handful of votes!

They've won a battIe,
but not the war.

So we'll win the war?

Who else?

But we have to fight,
and we will fight!

It's the only way to break
our chains and set ourselves free!

Yes, but here...

when we've broken our chains...

what do we do then?

If Don Pablo could hear you,
he wouldn't approve.

Don Pablo.
Don Pablo can't hear me.

Who knows where he is,
what he's doing?

What's with these long faces?

Mr. Di Cosimo,
this is a tragedy for us.

We were counting on
those two years of work.

We'd made plans,
run up debts even.

I know, it's a shame to leave
the work half-completed...

but we hope to start again soon.

Soon? When?

I don't know.

It depends.

But I assure you it won't be long.

Anyway, I can't wait
to try out your cooking.

What does it depend on?

Company problems
are very complicated.

I don't know much
about company problems...

but I'm not daft.

We all knew that
as soon as you got elected...

the work would come to a halt.

That's true.

The husband's hot-blooded.

If Don Pablo had been here...

maybe the elections
would have gone better.

Mario, I have something
to tell you.

I'm pregnant.

- Really?
- Yes.

- You're really pregnant?
- Yes.

We have to leave here.

No one understands us here.

They're all too ignorant.

We'll go to Chile, so Pablito
will grow up there, breathe poetry.

Pablito?

Don't you like it?

After Neruda. It'll be
a good omen for our son.

- Mario?
- No. He's in front.

Mario, is that you?
There's a letter from Chile.

Put it in my pocket, please.

- Open it!
- Wait.

Mario Ruoppolo. It's the first
letter I've ever received.

''Santiago, 15th October, 1953.

Dear Sir...

I ask you to send me...

some objects belonging to...

signor Pablo Neruda...

which are to be found
in the house where he lived...

during his...

stay in Italy.

Address enclosed...

and a list of...

the above-mentioned objects.

The secretary... the secretary...

of Pablo Neruda.''

And for you?

Not a word, not a greeting,
and he left over a year ago.

I told you, the bird
that has eaten flies away!

People are kind only
when you're useful to them.

Not again with that
''bird that has eaten.''

And useful for what?

What did I do for this person?

In fact, it was always me...

who would ask, ''Don Pablo,
will you check this metaphor?''

''Don Pablo,
wllI you read me a poem?''

I'm the one who bothered him.

And you say I was useful.

What did I do?

And yet he knew
I was no good as a poet.

He knew, you know?

But instead he treated me
like a friend.

Like a brother.

It's not true that you're no good.

And I'm not calling him Pablito.

What has the baby
got to do with it?

Why, do you think I'm a poet?

Am I a poet? Have I ever
written anything, any poems?

No, Mario, but--

Then ''No, Mario'' nothing.

Admit it.

Why should he remember me?

As a poet, I'm not much good.

As a postman--
He would hardly remember...

a postman who took him
his mail when he lived in Italy.

As a communist?

Not even that. I wasn't very--

I think it's...

quite normal that he--

All right.

Tomorrow, we'll go there
and send his things off.

I told them I'm here with
a friend who wishes to say hello...

and tell them something nice
about this beautifuI country.

- No.
- Yes.

Good morning.

No, there.

Good morning.

Something nice about the island?

Yes, one of the wonders
of your island.

Are you sure
it works outdoors, too?

If it works inside,
it'll work outside.

It works here.

One, two, three.
Is the red light on?

Yes, it's lit.

One.

Number one.

Waves at the Cala di Sotto.

Small ones.

Go on!

Number two.

Waves. Big ones.

Go on!

Number three.

Wind on the cliffs.

Number four.

Wind through the bushes.

Number five.

Sad nets belonging to my father.

Number six.

Church bell...

of Our Lady of Sorrows...

with priest.

It's beautiful.

I never realized
it was so beautiful.

Number seven.

Starry sky over the island.

Number eight.

Pablito's heartbeat.

You can hear everything!

Really?

You can hear it!

You can hear Pablito's heart!

I'm not calling him Pablito.

Come here, Pablito!

There was
a communist demonstration.

Pablito never saw him.

He was born
a few days after Mario died.

I didn't want him to go,
but he wouldn't llsten.

''Don Pablo would be proud,''
he'd say.

A riot began, and the police
moved in on the crowd.

He was trapped.

This is something
Mario made for you.

I should have sent it to you,
but I kept it instead.

Dearest Don Pablo...

this is Mario.

I hope you haven't forgotten me.

Anyway...

do you remember that
you once asked me...

to say something nice
about my island...

and I couldn't think of anything?

Now...

I know.

So I want to send you this tape...

which, if you want to,
you can play to your friends.

If not, you can listen to it.

Then you'll remember me...

and Italy.

When you Ieft here...

I thought you'd taken all
the beautiful things away with you.

But now...

now I realize...

that you left something
behind for me.

I aIso want to tell you
that I've written a poem...

but you can't hear it
because I'm embarrassed.

It's called
''Song for Pablo Neruda.''

Even if it's about the sea...

it's dedicated to you.

If you hadn't come into my life...

I never would have written it.

I've been invited
to read it in publlc.

And even though I know my voice
will shake, I'll be happy.

And you will hear the people
applaud when they hear your name.

Comrades!

Comrades!

We now invite onto the platform
three working men:

Luigi Tronco, Mario Ruoppolo
and Antonio De Marco.

They are here not to speak,
but to recite their poetry.

We invite Mario Ruoppolo
onto the platform...

who has dedicated this poem...

to the great poet
who is known to us all...

Pablo Neruda.

PIease clear a path
for Mario Ruoppolo!

Hear that?

Hurrah!

He's Mario Ruoppolo.
Let him through.

Excuse me!

We have to reach the platform.

Comrades!

Mario, where are you?

Mario Ruoppolo!

Comrades, keep calm!

Keep back!

Comrades!

.