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.

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?

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