of my birth.
The birches, the air of my childhood.
An affectionate greeting from your
abandoned friend, Pavel Sasnovsky.
As a child I fell ill.
From hunger and fear.
I tear shreds of skin from my lips.
In my memory I lick traces of salt,
of freshness.
And still I walk and walk.
I sit on a doorstep,
lacking for warmth.
I... stagger deliriously as to
the piper's tune.
I was hot, I opened my collar
and lay down.
The trumpets sounded.
A light pierced my eyelids.
High above the pavement.
Mother flies, beckons with her hand.
And flew away.
Now beneath the apple-trees
I dream of a white hospital.
As a child I fell ill...
I must go and see Dad.
I've a jacket in the wardrobe,
it's been there three years.
I'll wear it again when I get home.
I never see anyone.
What are you doing here?
Don't be afraid of me.
It's I who should be afraid of you.
You could shoot me.
Everyone shoots in Italy.
And there are too many Italian shoes.
Unbelievable!
Why does everyone buy them?
These are ten years old.
It's not important.
Well...
Well...
You know
the great classic romances...
...no kisses...
Nothing at all. Very pure.
That's why they're great.
Feelings that are unspoken
are unforgettable.
Here it's like in Russia.
I don't know why.
I don't know...
I speak bad Italian.
Here's a story.
A man saves another man who was
sinking into a slimy pond...
...thereby risking his own life.
Now they are both lying on the edge
of the pond...
...out of breath, exhausted.
The rescued man says: "You idiot!
"Why did you do that?
I live in there!"
"I live in there." He was offended.
What's your name?
Are you happy?
- About what?
- About life.
About life? Sure.
Good girl
Sight grows dim, my strength...
...is two occult, adamantine darts.
Hearing falters, as my father's
house breathes distant thunder.
The tissues of hard muscles weaken.
Like hoary oxen at the plough.
And no longer, when night falls,
do two wings gleam behind me.
During the party, a candle,
am wasted away.
At dawn gather up my melted wax.
And read in it whom to mourn,
what to be proud of.
How, by laying down
the last portion of joy...
...to die lightly.
And, sheltering under
a makeshift roof.
To light up posthumously,
like a word.
Why must I think of this?
Haven't I enough worries?
My God, why did I do it?
They're my children, my family,
my own flesh and blood.
How could I?
Years without seeing the sun,
fearing the daylight!
Why?
Why this tragedy?
Lord, don't you see how he's asking?
Say something to him.
But what would happen
if he heard my voice?
Let him feel your presence.
I always do, but he's not aware of it.
- I'll bring the car round
in ten minutes. - Okay.
- Mr. Gorchakov, phone call for you.
- Me? -Yes.
Please wait a moment.
- In a hall.
- Thank you.
- Hallo... Hallo..
- This is Eugenia.
- How are you?
- Well... very well.
- Guess why I called.
- Perhaps you...
Your Domenico is here, the lunatic
from Bagno Vignoni.
No, I know he's not mad;
I said it so you'd understand.
Anyway, he's taking part in a weird
demonstration here in Rome.
He's been making speeches for
three days, like Fidel Castro.
Come and say goodbye to him.
I'm leaving... immediately.
He keeps asking if you've done
what you were supposed to do.
Of course.
I'll tell him right away.
- Thank you.
I'm glad we could say goodbye.
I'm going away with Vittorio.
We'll probably go to India.
Vittorio's
from an illustrious family.
He's deeply interested
in spiritual matters.
Good, Eugenia,
wish you all the best.
Same to you.
Say hello to Moscow for me.
How are you keeping?
How's your heart? All right?
Don't know, I've had enough.
I'm fed up...
...want to go home.
I'm going to buy some cigarettes.
I