Il Postino Page #5

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

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