Neruda Page #3

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- Do you have the manuscript?

- A sketch.

Want to see?

There is not much, but...

Here it is. "General Corner".

Thirty c's of thirty poems.

In thirty envelopes?

Were they working?

Not only by writing.

Look! Thank you.

Publisher Seventh Cycle.

Neruda likes sex,

crime and violence.

Police books make me forget

that the police are after me.

This can not be forgotten.

- I will.

- Waiting.

- For Picasso.

- The blind painter.

Very well. See you later.

The thirty poems are flying.

If I intercept one and burn,

The other 29 will reach

the 29-red hands.

Nothing can be done in

the face of a crook.

- Good Morning.

- How can I help you?

We scheduled a visit

with the President.

Did they arrest Neruda?

Do not.

So what are you doing here?

Did you search his house?

- Yes of course.

- Was it there?

- No.

- Where will it be?

- We do not know.

- It has to be somewhere.

You're right.

Seek your first wife.

There must always be

a wonderful plan.

Listen, let's do this.

But tell the President, please,

We are looking for

you relentlessly...

- No, no.

- Why not?

I'm not your employee, you sh*t.

I'm your civilian superior and I

order you to get this Communist.

What if I get it?

- How is it?

"What if I get him?"

Excuse.

A "civil superior"?

A civilian is never superior to me.

Why do not you dress?

- With what?

- I do not know, there are clothes on.

There's a dress in the chair.

I'm a lady, Pablo.

Without clean clothes,

I can not get up.

Nor do I have clean clothes.

Then get it out.

Come here.

He makes me a son.

The poet struggles to

say something romantic.

Delia, please.

- Please what?

What's wrong with you?

Anything! I want to get some

air and I'm stuck here.

Then, leave.

But they'll kill you.

May the Duke of Braganza die,

That falls from the horse, the Emperor.

I'm a fish too.

I live in the Pacific Ocean.

Max Havelaar, thank you.

They're chasing me.

A Chinese girl with

wet hair, I know.

There's a place where you smoke pio.

You lie on your side...

Xoxotinha, xoxotinha...

Hidden, warm here...

They're chasing me!

The elegant Peluchonneau commission

works on a secret mission.

The president has a plan

to humiliate Neruda.

So I'm going to the station

to get a Dutch one.

What?

"Is he the wife of Neruda?"

- Yes.

Come here.

Every good cop knows how and

when to sacrifice himself.

Besides, this blonde

has fire in her veins.

I would never have left her.

- Speak Spanish?

- A little.

"And how was it treated?"

- More or less.

It would help us a lot if

we gave some interviews.

I could tell how

it was abandoned.

Pablo left you with your

sick daughter, did not you?

I want Pablo to pay

me one million pesos.

Pablo has a lot of money because

he writes very long poems.

Of course, that's fair.

It is therefore important that,

when talking to journalists,

You use the right word.

- "Bbio".

- Bigamo?

"Bbio".

Yeah, bigamo.

Pablo loves women.

This woman is going to destroy Neruda.

Do not let me down.

Many women like cops.

Dream of cleaning their homes

And change their dressings

when they get shot.

The kiss of the butcher wolf.

After you read it, it's

the turn of the dogs.

It does not matter that she has

the stale stench of the poet.

I'm used to that squid sweat.

I love you.

Do not imagine how I love you.

For you I have a walking path and a

zoo in the middle of the desert.

Those who flee from there

have seen a stanza of salt.

But no one escapes,

Because the captain of the

prison is a blue-eyed fox.

His name is Augusto Pinochet.

You come?

Do not.

I need to think why

I'm helping you.

See you later.

We are here, we are

God of the day,

With Mrs. Maria Hagenaar,

wife of Pablo Neruda,

To tell us his verse.

Lady Maria, it is true

that Pablo Neruda

Is it a bug?

We have posters that show

the opinion of the people,

Saying, for example,

"Neruda traitor",

"Communist Neruda,"

things like that.

- Whose traitor?

- Mrs...

This is a lie.

He is a great man.

You owe me a lot of money, but...

is very beautiful.

I like the way Neruda sleeps.

He is not a traitor.

He's handsome, Neruda.

He is not a traitor.

He is a great man...

Thus fails the strategy of

the geniuses of intrigue.

Mrs. Maria ran out of the

gods of the storm...

Hello. Ol , Chile.

This poet is a public danger

And an unforgettable lover.

Any information about

your whereabouts

Will be rewarded.

My name is Oscar Peluchonneau,

Of the Chilean National

Police of Investigation.

Let's take a musical break.

We'll be back.

The World F ron of

Intellectuals for Peace

Is pleased to introduce the

anti-fascist creator...

Pablo Picasso!

This is a letter sent by

my friend, Pablo Neruda.

In this instant, he is

Hidden under a bridge

Or on a railway track.

Even so, in clandestinity,

The poet organizes resistance

against Chilean fascism.

This is the testimony of

a Latin American giant

Which illuminates the path of peace

for the workers of the world.

Girl, when I die.

Do not cry over my grave.

Sing me a beautiful tune.

Sing me "La Sandunga".

Do not cry for me, do not.

Cause if you cry I die.

But if you sing to me.

I always live And I never die.

But if you sing to me.

I always live And I never die.

Hello.

Stop this fight now!

Elegance!

- Sing, fat!

- I'm singing to the senator!

Keep singing, fat!

- It's my art!

- Joy Joy!

But if you sing to me.

I always live And I never die.

- Come to the poet!

- Come on!

- Come to Pablo Neruda!

- Thank you.

Sorry for what happened.

Say a poem. S um.

The one like this:

"I can say the verses..."

Say, go.

"I can write the saddest

lines tonight."

To think that I do not have it.

Feeling that I lost it.

To hear the night immense,

more immense without it.

"And the verse falls on the soul..."

Applause!

You sent me another

detective novel, poet.

Because?

Good evening! Police!

Good evening.

How does he know that this is

my backyard and my school?

My mother worked in a house

like this for 30 years.

Where is it?

This shitty Communist?

Are you going to want a call?

You want one of the girls, Don Oscar?

Each of these women

is my mother.

I am the son of a prostitute,

of a venereal disease.

Turn around! Let's go!

My mother never knew the

name of my real father.

When she was drunk she said

Mu oz, Martinez, Mardones...

But he also closed his eyes

And suspected it was the

Peluchonneau commission.

A silent lord, chief

of all the police.

Did he pay you?

Do you know who is?

He's a politician.

A communist.

I did not know you were a communist.

How long will you hold me here?

I have things to do.

Look, let's just say one thing.

It's not every day we find

A poet of this category,

in our house.

For me, it was a miracle.

He was there with me

and I was with him.

He told me we were the same.

He asked me what I

felt when I sang.

Imagine. I shared things that

I do not share with anyone.

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