Neruda Page #6

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Mr. President?

Yes, it is Peluchonneau, yes.

We arrest Senator Neruda.

Come on, quick!

The boss is coming.

Dominguez.

A feudal lord who invented

capitalism on his land.

There is a secret trail up the mountain

to bring Argentine contraband.

Hello, sir.

This is Mr. Monsalve,

a Mapuche chief.

We are afraid of these people.

Are you tired, Mr. Ruiz?

I'll call him Mr. Ruiz.

I'm Pedro Dominguez,

owner of this sh*t here.

On behalf of the President

of the Republic,

I'm going to arrest

him for treason.

"You're on my own day."

"Am I on your custom day?"

It is.

"Are you going to get me arrested?"

- No, I'll help you.

Crossing the ridge.

Many people die there.

I'll help you.

You do not want to pay taxes.

I'm irritated by this

president you elected.

He thinks that the state

is an enemy of freedom.

So why will you help me?

Yes.

It is more fun to help

than to call the police.

More fun?

Yes, more fun.

Over his shoulders and soul will

stand the future of the Republic.

The millionaire is always

smarter than the laws.

Patron.

A police officer is here

behind the senator.

- He wants us to show him the trail.

- What's he like?

Kind of rough, half idiot.

Araucania.

A land without a temple.

Trees and cold.

It is said that the

conquistadors wept

When a Mapuche patrol arrived.

They were more afraid of the

Indians than of the Moors.

Now it is a land of peace.

A land of clay and work.

The poet writes about it.

The suffering of the

poor inspires him.

Pablo!

Hide! Hide!

Pablo...

I'm seeing you.

I hear you gasp.

The middle one, the fat one.

I go from the left, you

see from the right.

I'm going to shoot the horse's

head so I'll die soon.

You come and grab it.

It's going to be very impressive.

You think they will not shoot?

Do not.

Because the animals

will run scared.

It's going to be a chain reaction.

Meanwhile...

I'll come forward.

It's good to be a cop, right?

Right. Let's go.

I'm sorry, sir.

The sh*t of the traitor Gonzales

Videla is me, and I came this far.

Me, the skinny, the bony.

In this white bed, I make a

toast to the last months.

I only have one bullet,

passionate boar.

But do not worry.

With the cold, you will not feel it.

Pablo!

Why does he come to me?

Are not you afraid?

Pablo, where are you going?

But he is curious.

Pablo, come on. Pablo!

He wants to see me.

How could he not see

the end of his story?

Where are you going, man?

He gave me a hug.

Talked to me.

And she danced with me.

I pursued the guide, but I

do not know how to fly.

I'm far away.

I can only go back to the

bottom of the earth.

I lived believing I

was a Peluchonneau.

Son of a police uniform.

But now...

I think maybe I was a Neruda.

A son of the people.

Maybe my father

lived on his knees,

With the dirty face.

Maybe put together four coins

And paid to sweat the

back of my hand.

Maybe I'm a son of the wheat.

Another black head among

millions of black heads.

But I'm going to die white,

Because nobody else

persecuted the poet.

No one else terrified

him in the snow.

No one else made him

gasp regretfully.

No one else accompanied

him on his trip.

It does not matter

that you wrote to me,

That made me a

secondary character.

I wrote myself too.

Lousy way.

I invented myself without life,

Alone, without love.

But the poet invented me furiously,

Full of wind.

He wrote me to a fabulous death.

A police death.

Slow, cold.

With red details,

With music,

with animals,

With trees,

With poetry.

Do you know him?

Do not.

Yes...

Yes I know.

This is my inspector.

My pursuer.

My uniform ghost.

I dream about him and

he dreams about me.

He watches over me,

knows my back.

Look what you wrote, officer.

You wrote the snow

and the horses.

You raise Me Up.

Now you do not even feel the cold.

We have to take him.

Alert the muleteers.

I feel the heart

beat of this horse.

I feel my own heart, too.

Because they did not kill me.

They did not kill me

with a blow to the head.

- Are you breathing?

- No.

Mr. Picasso, tell me

what happened to him.

For almost two years,

Neruda headed the Chilean

resistance in the clandestine.

The political police chased

him into the mountains.

But the poet crossed the Andes,

Disappeared in the snow

and came to heaven.

Mr. Neruda, did you write

in the underground?

Forgiveness?

Are you afraid that your political

figure will overlap your poetry?

Do not.

I'm not afraid.

It turns out that...

Sometimes I feel like I'm

freezing in the snow.

I dream. I dream with this.

- Cold dead?

- No, dead with one shot.

There's a man...

Who was about to kill me.

"Is he still pursuing you?"

- It's possible.

- Who is it?

"A policeman, miss.

Maybe he's around, watching us.

No one will know that I existed.

Say my name. Say it!

Say my name.

Say my name!

His name was Oscar.

Oscar Peluchonneau.

- You said!

- Peluchonneau.

You said my name!

Write:
Peluchonneau.

I'm not a secondary character.

Many men of my country

are in prison,

Tortured, exiled.

I'm just one of them.

Because I've always been

a prisoner with them.

Why did he do all this?

For your people.

The poet gave them words

to count their lives.

Their lives are hard.

These words made sense to

his terrifying dreams.

That's why he did everything,

so they could talk.

They can already be quoted as

being trampled by history.

They do not remember

the poems of love,

S of the fairy tales.

Unrecognizable Poems...

Poems of an imaginary future.

"I can write the saddest

poem of all tonight..."

Wonderful!

Neruda made me eternal.

Your art gave me life.

I was from paper...

And now I am of blood.

I can write the saddest

poem of all tonight...

GROO:

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