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Postino Il Page #3
- Year:
- 1994
- 11 Views
I can't invent something
out of nothing.
I've got this little ball...
which Beatrice put in her mouth.
She's touched it.
So what?
It 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 I supposed to do?
No one else can help me.
They're all fishermen here!
What am I 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.
I don't think so.
He doesn't talk much.
Come on, give me my mail.
Thank you, but I don't want it.
- Do you want something else?
- No, thanks.
Beatrice, your smile
spreads like a butterfly.
Fallen out of bed this morning?
I came earlier because...
I saw this.
It looks important.
You're right, it is important.
And then...
there's something else...
I've been meaning to give you
but kept forgetting.
- I'll put it here. Good-bye.
- Wait a minute.
I've got something for you, too.
Here.
It might be useful
for your metaphors.
Is 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 I was Senator
of the Republic...
I went to visit Pampa...
once every 50 years...
where life
is unimaginably hard.
I 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."
I felt I 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.
I told them I'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, I'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 I get married
to Beatrice Russo...
will you be my best man?
Listen...
first let's have a drink,
then we'll decide.
Gennarino, wait! I'm coming, too!
Domenico, come here
or I'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
There you are.
You already have your poetry.
If you want to write it down,
here's your notebook.
Thank you.
What is it?
Go home. It's closing time!
I won't make you pay for the bottle,
but go home. We're closing.
- What are you doing?
- I'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?
- I laughed when he said that.
Your laugh is a rose...
a spear unearthed, crashing water.
Your laugh is
Then what did you do?
I 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 said he was happy
to be next to a pure young woman.
Like being on the shores
of the white ocean.
I like it...
I 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.
I'd prefer a drunkard
at the bar touching your bum...
to someone who says,
"Your smile flies like a butterfly"!
It "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.
I found this in her brassiere.
I want you to read it to me.
I'm not letting her
out of the house for now.
Well?
It's a poem.
Read it to me!
"Naked..."
Madonna!
What are the nets like?
Mario, I need an adjective.
Nets... Which nets?
Fishing nets?
Yes.
Sad.
Sad.
All right?
Good morning, signora.
- Would you like...
- Yes.
Please, sit down.
No. What I 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.
It 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...
his imagination or that...
Yes, I think he's had
his hands on her.
Read this.
It was in her brassiere.
"Naked...
As beautiful as...
Naked, you're as delicate
as nights on an island...
and stars in your hair..."
It'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.
as the poem describes her.
So do me a favor
and tell Mario Ruoppolo...
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