Il Postino Page #5

What's your name?

Beatrice Russo.

And you?

I couldn't think of anything to say.

Nothing at all?

- You didn't say a word?

- Not exactly nothing.

I said five words to her.

Which were?

I said, ''What's your name?''

- And she?

- And she:
''Beatrice Russo.''

''What's your name?'' are three words.

And the other two?

Then I repeated Beatrice Russo.

Don Pablo, if--

I don't want to bother you, but...

can you write me

a poem for Beatrice?

I don't even know her!

A poet needs to know

the object of his inspiration!

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 eIse?

- No, thanks.

Beatrice, your smile

spreads llke 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 peopIe

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 feIt I had to write something

to help man in his struggIe...

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