No, there's no water, Dad.
lt's all gone, since this morning.
l wanted to rinse my hands, too.
All gone.
ls it still warm?
l've got the sniffles this morning!
lt must have been the dampness on the boat.
l only have to set foot on that boat--
Perhaps l'm allergic.
Even if the boat's not moving, the dampness gets to me.
l don't know how you can stay on it all night...
and not catch a thing.
The minute l get on--
l'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.
lt's written here: ""We're buying one.''
But l 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 liked fishing.
l've caught a chill.
Go to America orJapan 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 travelers...
who crowd the station platforms every day.
These protesters...
are not drunkards...
nor the usual hotheads who protestjust for the fun of it.
They are a group of intellectuals, writers andjournalists.
Why have theyjoined 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 Italy...
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 ofhome.
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?
l'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, l can read and write.
Not very fast, but--
Sit down.
l need someone to deliver mail to Cala di Sotto.
That's great. l live there.
There's only one addressee.
Only one?
Everyone else there is illiterate.
l'm not illiterate, but still--
Well, then.
lt'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.
l 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.
l'll wait here.
l'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. - lt suits you anyway.
My name's Giorgio.
l'm your superior, and you should call me sir.
But l won't hold you to it, because l'm a communist, too.
And remember...
the poet...
is a great and kind person.
He deserves respect.
You say hello, you thank him.
lf he tips you, you thank him again.
- Right? - Yes, right.
This is your hat.
This is your bag.
Today's the 1 5th. Your first payday's the 27 th.
When do you start?
Monday morning. 6:45, l open the shutters.
Then the public comes later.
Are you in uniform already?
No, l'm just wearing the hat.
That way it'll take its shape better...
or l'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! - l knew it!
This one, too.
Even the women are interested in politics in Chile!
l know, but all females--
How come?
Listen...
but what's Don Pablo...
like?
- ls 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, l can--
No, thank you.
Matilde goes shopping every day.
lf ever she doesn't want to go out, you can ask me. l come and go.
We don't need anything. Thanks anyway.
l mean, if by any chance--
And remember, Mario...
you mustn't bother him with a lot of questions.
lt's forbidden to annoy customers with strange requests.
l know, l won't annoy him.
l'll only ask him to sign this book, that's all.
So when l get paid, l'll go to Naples...
and show all the girls...
that l'm a friend of Neruda, the poet of love!
The poet of the people!
Excuse me, could you sign it?
Please, could you sign it?
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?
l told him quite clearly, Mario Ruoppolo.
""Regards, Pablo Neruda.''
lt 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, l asked him. He was staring at the mountain.
- Exactly, you see? - No, l 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 l supposed to ask him then...
if l 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!
l 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, Pablo Neruda.''
No, this is yours. He signed it for you.
- l'm happy to let you have it. - No!
Mr. Di Cosimo, shall l empty all the water?
All of it, all of it.
'Morning.
Mr. Di Cosimo...
what can l do to thank you? Your wreath was the nicest.
Nothing, Donna Rosa. Just vote and get others to vote.
Remember to use that little pencil of yours.
And hopefully some of your customers will, too.
""...happens that l go into the tailors' shops and the movies...
all shriveled up...
impenetrable, like a felt swan...
navigating on a water of origin and ash.
The smell of barber shops makes me sob out loud...
l 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 l've written.
l've written much better.
lt's unfair of you to shower me with similes and metaphors.
Don Pablo?
Metaphors.
What are those?
Metaphors?
Metaphors are-- How can l explain?
When you talk of something, comparing it to another.
ls it something...
you use in poetry?
Yes, that too.
For example?
For example...
when you say, ""the sky weeps,'' what do you mean?
That it's raining.
Yes, very good.
- That's a metaphor. - lt'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 l'll go.
l was reading something yesterday:
""The smell of barber shops makes me sob out loud.''
ls that a metaphor, too?
No...
not exactly.
l liked it, too, when...
when you wrote:
""l am tired of being a man.''
That's happened to me, too...
but l never knew how to say it.
l really liked it when l read it.
Why ""the smell of barber shops makes me sob''?
You see, Mario...
l can't tell you...
in words different from those l'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 l open it? - Yes!
My hands are dirty.
lt's written in--
lt's foreign.
ls 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?
lf they give it to me, l won't refuse.
Why?
How much money is it?
1 7 1 ,1 3 5 Swedish krona.
l'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, l'm sure.
Thank you.
Shall l open the other letters?
No, l'll read them later.
Are they love letters?
What a question! Don't let Matilde hear you.
l'm sorry, Don Pablo. l only meant--
l'd like to be a poet, too.
No, it's more original being a postman.
You get to walk a lot and don't get fat.
We poets are all fat.
Yes, but...
with poetry...
l could make women fall for me.
How--
How do you become a poet?
Try and walk slowly 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 problem of water?
Have you got water?
No, that's exactly the problem.
That's no problem at all!
Why? ls it normal?
lt's normal.
You've run out of water...
up at the cistern.
Do you use a lot of water?
No,just what l 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.
lt's a pity.
This place is so beautiful!
Think so?
Yes. Sit down.
Here on the island, the sea...
so much sea.
lt spills over from time to time.
lt says yes, then no...
then no.
ln blue, in foam, in a gallop...
it says no, then no.
lt 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?
lt's weird.
What do you mean, weird?
- You're a severe critic. - No, not your poem.
Weird...
how l felt while you were saying it.
How was that?
l don't know.
The words went back and forth.
- Like the sea then? - Exactly.
- Like the sea. - There, that's the rhythm.
l felt seasick, in fact.
Because...
l can't explain it. l 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 l didn't mean to.
Meaning to is not important.
lmages arise spontaneously.
You mean then that...
for example, l 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?
- l'm talking crap. - No, not at all.
Not at all.
You pulled a strange face.
Mario, let's make a pact.
l'll have a nice swim...
and ponder your question.
Then l'll give you an answer tomorrow.
- Really? - Yes, really.
Don Pablo, good morning.
l've got to talk to you.
lt must be very important. You're snorting like a horse.
lt's very important.
- l've fallen in love. - Nothing serious. There's a remedy.
No, no remedy!
l don't want a remedy. l want to stay sick.
l'm in love, really, really in love.
Who are you in love 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 l know, but Alighieri--
- Has it got an ""h'' in it? - Wait, l'll write it for you.
Thank you.
l'm madly in love.
You've already told me that, but what can l do about it?
l don't know, if you can help--
But l'm an old man.
l don't know, because...
l suddenly saw her in front of me.
l stared at her, but l couldn't utter a word.
What, you didn't say anything to her?
Not much.
- l watched her and fell in love. -Just like that? ln a flash?
No, l 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?
l couldn't think of anything to say.
Nothing at all?
- You didn't say a word? - Not exactly nothing.
l said five words to her.
Which were?
l said, ""What's your name?''
- And she? - And she: ""Beatrice Russo.''
""What's your name?'' are three words. And the other two?
Then l repeated Beatrice Russo.
Don Pablo, if--
l don't want to bother you, but...
can you write me a poem for Beatrice?
l don't even know her!
A poet needs to know the object of his inspiration!
l can't invent something out of nothing.
l've got this little ball...
which Beatrice put in her mouth. She's touched it.
So what?
lt 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 l supposed to do?
No one else can help me. They're all fishermen here!
What am l 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.
l don't think so. He doesn't talk much.
Come on, give me my mail.
Thank you, but l don't want it.
- Do you want something else? - No, thanks.
Beatrice, your smile spreads like a butterfly.
Fallen out of bed this morning?
l came earlier because...
l saw this. lt looks important.
You're right, it is important.
And then...
there's something else...
l've been meaning to give you but kept forgetting.
- l'll put it here. Good-bye. - Wait a minute.
l've got something for you, too.
Here.
lt might be useful for your metaphors.
ls 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 l was Senator of the Republic...
l went to visit Pampa...
a region where it only rains once every 50 years...
where life is unimaginably hard.
l wanted to meet the people 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.''
l felt l had to write something to help man in his struggle...
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.
l told them l'm here with a friend who wishes to say hello.
And tell them something nice about this beautiful country.
Yes.
- Good morning. - No, in there.
Something nice about the island?
Yes, one of the wonders of your island.
Now let's go to the inn...
and meet this famous Beatrice Russo.
Are you joking?
No, l'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 l get married to Beatrice Russo...
will you be my best man?
Listen...
first let's have a drink, then we'll decide.
Gennarino, wait! l'm coming, too!
Domenico, come here or l'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.
lf you want to write it down, here's your notebook.
Thank you.
What is it?
Go home. lt's closing time!
l won't make you pay for the bottle, but go home. We're closing.
- What are you doing? - l'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 like a butterfly.
- And then? - l 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?
l 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.
l like it--
l 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.
l'd prefer a drunkard at the bar touching your bum...
to someone who says, ""Your smile flies like a butterfly''!
lt ""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.
l found this in her brassiere.
l want you to read it to me.
l'm not letting her out of the house for now.
Well?
lt's a poem.
Read it to me!
""Naked...''
Madonna!
What are the nets like? Mario, l need an adjective.
Nets-- Which nets? Fishing nets?
Yes.
Sad.
All right?
Good morning, signora.
- Would you like-- - Yes.
Please, sit down.
No. What l 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 like 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.
lt started off innocently enough: ""Her smile was like 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, l think he's had his hands on her.
Read this. lt was in her brassiere.
""Naked--
As beautiful as--
Naked, you're as delicate as nights on an island...
and stars in your hair--''
lt'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's 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, l'll shoot him.
- ls that clear? - Yes.
Good day.
You're as white as a sack of flour.
l might be white outside, but inside l'm red.
You won't save yourself from the widow's fury with adjectives.
lf 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.
l don't care. She can do what she wants. l'm ready.
Good lad! lt'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.
lt's your fault if l'm in love.
No, this has nothing to do with me.
l gave you my books...
but l didn't authorize you to steal my poems.
lf you think you gave Beatrice the poem l wrote for Matilde--
Poetry doesn't belong to those who write it, but those who need it.
l 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 l'm saying?
l'm voting communist.
What?
l'm voting communist.
l hear you've gone crazy about poetry.
l 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. - l'll give you a discount, all right?
Fishermen are exploited enough as it is.
He said 300 lire. Why should he give you a discount?
l don't mean to exploit anyone. Good-bye.
Why don't you mind your own business?
l was trying to help.
Mario...
as your superior l 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.
l held the splendor of your eyes...
secretly within me, blissful Beatrice.
What's Beatrice got to do with it?
lt's a poem.
Dante Alighieri--
No, Gabriele D'Annunzio, my poet.
Your poet wrote something for Beatrice?
l don't like it.
Strange, l 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.
lf 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.
l remember my poor departed mother. l'd tremble whenever she spoke.
Good night, Aunt. Good night, Marshal.
Find yourselves a decent person who isn't a communist.
lf 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.
l'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.
l know he's a Catholic.
ln 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:
""l askJesus to let me live to see my son with a job...
a wife and children in his arms.''
Unfortunately, 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?
l'm sorry, Comrade, l forgot. This came for you.
Thank you.
- Good news? - To the newlyweds!
With a chaste heart...
with pure eyes...
l celebrate your beauty...
holding the leash of blood so that it might leap out...
and trace your outline...
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...
l'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, l'd like to say that on this very special day...
l have received some wonderful news.
The warrant for our arrest...
has been revoked...
and therefore Matilde and l can now...
return to the country we love so much:
Chile.
No, Don Pablo.
But you'll be unemployed tomorrow.
No, l don't want anything.
l'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 l'll have to flee again.
l'll leave some things here anyway...
if you could keep an eye on it for me.
l'll let you know where to send them.
Perhaps l'll bring them to Chile myself.
That'd be wonderful.
Do you need this?
Yes.
Thank you.
l've discovered another poet who wrote about Beatrice...
called D'Annunzio.
l know.
So you could have written one, too.
Good-bye.
- What is it? - Look at this.
He's in Russia, giving an award.
ln Russia? lf 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.
lt's a good picture.
- The young poet, Milovan-- - Perkovic.
Awarded a poetry prize by the maestro.
- Can l keep it? - No, you can't.
l'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 oflife.!
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!
Please yourselves.
No, we'll do as we please.
Would you be prepared to work in the kitchen, ""signor'' husband?
ln the kitchen?
Yes.
A toast to Beatrice, the prettiest girl in town!
Look!
- What does it say? - He's in Paris.
""Whereas l really loved ltaly...
where l led a happy life in complete solitude...
and among the most simple people in the world.''
""What things are you most nostalgic about?''
""Nostalgia is an emotion l can feel only for my own country...
but l will never forget...
my strolls along the beach and among the rocks...
where tiny plants 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 talk about nature...
not about the people they meet.
The bird that has eaten flies away!
l 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 ltaly.
They can't do anything with a handful of votes!
They've won a battle, but not the war.
So we'll win the war?
Who else?
But we have to fight, and we will fight!
lt'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?
lf 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.
l know, it's a shame to leave the work half-completed...
but we hope to start again soon.
Soon? When?
l don't know.
lt depends.
But l assure you it won't be long.
Anyway, l can't wait to try out your cooking.
What does it depend on?
Company problems are very complicated.
l don't know much about company problems...
but l'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. lt's the first letter l've ever received.
""Santiago, 1 5th October, 1 953.
Dear Sir...
l 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 ltaly.
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.
l 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 l do for this person?
ln fact, it was always me...
who would ask, ""Don Pablo, will you check this metaphor?''
""Don Pablo, will you read me a poem?''
l'm the one who bothered him.
And you say l was useful.
What did l do?
And yet he knew l was no good as a poet.
He knew, you know?
But instead he treated me like a friend.
Like a brother.
lt's not true that you're no good.
And l'm not calling him Pablito.
What has the baby got to do with it?
Why, do you think l'm a poet?
Am l a poet? Have l ever written anything, any poems?
No, Mario, but--
Then ""No, Mario'' nothing.
Admit it.
Why should he remember me?
As a poet, l'm not much good.
As a postman-- He would hardly remember...
a postman who took him his mail when he lived in ltaly.
As a communist?
Not even that. l wasn't very--
l 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 beautiful 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?
lf it works inside, it'll work outside.
lt works here.
One, two, three. ls 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.
lt's beautiful.
l 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!
l'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.
l didn't want him to go, but he wouldn't listen.
""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.
l should have sent it to you, but l 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 ltaly.
When you left here...
l thought you'd taken all the beautiful things away with you.
But now...
now l realize...
that you left something behind for me.
I also 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 public.
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.!
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.
Please 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.!