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.
l'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.
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...
who's learnt a lot from you...
that he must never see my niece again for the rest of his life.
And tell him that if he does, I'll shoot him.
- Is that clear? - Yes.
Good day.
You're as white as a sack of flour.
I might be white outside, but inside I'm red.
You won't save yourself from the widow's fury with adjectives.
If she harms me, she'll go to jail.
She'll be out in a couple of hours.
She'll say she acted out of self-defense.
She'll say you threatened the virginity of her damsel:
with a metaphor hissing like a dagger...
as sharp as a canine, as lacerating as a hymen.
The poetry will have left the mark of its seditious saliva...
on the virgin's nipples.
The poet Francois Villon was hung from a tree for much less...
and his blood gushed from his neck like roses.
I don't care. She can do what she wants. I'm ready.
Good lad! It's a real shame we haven't got...
a trio of guitarists to go...
My dear poet and comrade...
you got me into this mess, you've got to get me out of it.
You gave me books to read...
you taught me to use my tongue for more than licking stamps.
It's your fault if I'm in love.
No, this has nothing to do with me.
I gave you my books...
but I didn't authorize you to steal my poems.
If you think you gave Beatrice the poem I wrote for Matilde...
Poetry doesn't belong to those who write it, but those who need it.
I appreciate that highly democratic sentiment.
Now go home and get some sleep.
You've bags under your eyes as large and deep as soup bowls.
This is for you. Vote for Di Cosimo.
They promised us running water...
on the island two years ago, too.
Two years ago, it wasn't Di Cosimo who promised you.
What's written on that paper is a pledge, not a promise.
An oath, and God is my witness.
Hey, Mario!
Aren't you interested in what I'm saying?
I'm voting communist.
What?
I'm voting communist.
I hear you've gone crazy about poetry.
I hear you're competing with Pablo Neruda.
But remember, poets can do a lot of damage to people.
- How much do these clams cost? - 300 lire to you.
For that price you'll have to guarantee me a pearl in each one.
- Give me a good price. - I'll give you a discount, all right?
Fishermen are exploited enough as it is.
He said 300 lire. Why should he give you a discount?
I don't mean to exploit anyone. Goodbye.
Why don't you mind your own business?
I was trying to help.
Mario...
as your superior I must order you to deliver the undelivered mail.
Yes, yes, yes.
But you're still moping after that girl.
Beatrice is pretty now...
but in 50 years she'll be as ugly as the rest.
Beatrice will never be ugly.
I held the splendor of your eyes...
secretly within me, blissful Beatrice.
What's Beatrice got to do with it?
It's a poem.
Dante Alighieri...
No, Gabriele D'Annunzio, my poet.
Your poet wrote something for Beatrice?
I don't like it.
Strange, I thought you'd appreciate a hymn to Beatrice.
Thank you. Goodbye.
- Sleeping Beauty... - Good evening.
Good evening. Give the Marshal his usual, and pour one for me, too.
Thank you.
Your niece gets more and more beautiful.
If you only knew how difficult it is to keep a hold on her.
Young people today aren't what they used to be.
They have everything and want the moon.
I remember my poor departed mother. I'd tremble whenever she spoke.
Good night, Aunt. Good night, Marshal.
Find yourselves a decent person who isn't a communist.
If Neruda doesn't believe in God, why should God believe in Neruda?
What sort of witness would he be?
God never said a communist can't be a witness at a wedding.
I'm not getting married then.
You're more interested in Neruda as a witness than me as your wife.
My darling...
Neruda's a Catholic.
I know he's a Catholic.
In Russia, communists eat babies. How can he be Catholic?
He doesn't look the type.
Neruda has a pretty wife.
He's getting on and he has no children.
How do you explain that?
So according to you, Don Pablo ate his kids?
Who knows?
Anyway, my answer's no, for your sake, too.
He inspired your bridegroom to write that filthy naked stuff.
That was only a poem.
Not to mention the rest.
He's not worthy of being witness to your happiness.
She'd say:
"I ask Jesus to let me live to see my son with a job...
a wife and children in his arms."
Unfortunately, she didn't make it...
because when the Lord called her to Him...
he didn't even have a job.
Today, from heaven my poor wife will see that he's made her happy...
because at least he's got a wife and a little job.
Even if it's not the job she'd have wanted for him...
All the best! Well done, Dad!
What are you doing, drinking wine?
I'm sorry, Comrade, I forgot. This came for you.
Thank you.
- Good news? - To the newlyweds!
With a chaste heart...
with pure eyes...
I celebrate your beauty...
holding the leash of blood so that it might leap out...
and trace your outline...
where you lie down in my ode as in a land of forests, or in a surf:
in aromatic loam or in sea music.
Now...
I'd like to toast my friend...
Mario...
and say what a pleasure it was for me to participate, in a small way...
to his happiness.
And lastly, I'd like to say that on this very special day...
I have received some wonderful news.
The warrant for our arrest...
has been revoked...
and therefore Matilde and I can now...
return to the country we love so much:
Chile.
No, Don Pablo.
But you'll be unemployed tomorrow.
No, I don't want anything.
I'll miss you.
But you will write to me?
Of course.
Things change all the time in my country.
Today they'll let me go back.
Tomorrow something else will happen and I'll have to flee again.
I'll leave some things here anyway...
if you could keep an eye on it for me.
I'll let you know where to send them.
Perhaps I'll bring them to Chile myself.
That'd be wonderful.
Do you need this?
Yes.
Thank you.
I've discovered another poet who wrote about Beatrice...
called D'Annunzio.
I know.
So you could have written one, too.
Goodbye.
- What is it? - Look at this.
He's in Russia, giving an award.
In Russia? If he's over here, he might pay a visit.
He's a very busy man, Mario!
He must meet the people he didn't see when he was in exile.
And he's also well-loved in Chile.
He won't have time to come here.
It's a good picture.
- The young poet, Milovan... - Perkovic.
Awarded a poetry prize by the maestro.
- Can I keep it? - No, you can't.
I'll put it in here with all the rest.
You can look at it whenever you like.
Vote for Di Cosimo.
The candidate promises to lead us on a new path.!
Vote for Di Cosimo.! For a new way of life.!
For the sake of our island!
Did that fellow come here?
- Who? - Di Cosimo.
Yes.
Why are you smiling?
Di Cosimo has served us a fortune on a silver platter.
Really?
20 families will be coming here to work on the new water mains.
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!
Please 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 Italy...
where I led a happy life in complete solitude...
and among the most simple people in the world."
"What things are you most nostalgic about?"
"Nostalgia is an emotion I can feel only for my own country...
but I will never forget...
my strolls along the beach and among the rocks...
where tiny plants 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 talk 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 Italy.
They can't do anything with a handful of votes!
They've won a battle, 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, will 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 l'm here with a friend who wishes to say hello...
and tell them something nice about this beautiful 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 listen.
"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 left 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 also want to tell you that l've written a poem...
but you can't hear it because l'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 public.
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!
We now invite onto the platform three working men.
Luigi Tronco, Mario Ruoppolo and Antonio De Marco.
They are here not to speak, but to recite their poetry.
We invite Mario Ruoppolo onto the platform...
who has dedicated this poem...
to the great poet who is known to us all...
Pablo Neruda.
Please clear a path for Mario Ruoppolo!
Hear that?
Hurrah!
He's Mario Ruoppolo. Let him through.
Excuse me!
We have to reach the platform.
Comrades!
Mario, where are you?
Mario Ruoppolo!
Comrades, keep calm!
Keep back!
Comrades!