Postino Il Page #3

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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...

a region where it only rains

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

and comrade - Pablo Neruda"

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

a sudden silvery wave.

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 never touched me.

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...

that these images are only

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.

My niece naked is just

as the poem describes her.

So do me a favor

and tell Mario Ruoppolo...

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