Davide Longo - The Last Man Standing

“It seems so, but people say some of them spoke Italian.”

Going back to the front of the house they found the tractor abandoned. Neither Sebastiano nor the dog were to be seen. The setting sun had transformed the courtyard into a uniform gray lake on which the tractor and its trailer seemed to be floating.

“Did you know he was unfrocked because of a woman?” Cesare said.

Leonardo did know but said nothing.

After seminary, Sebastiano had taught in the college of theology, but after several years asked for, and was given, a parish in upcountry Liguria. There he had gotten to know a woman whose man was often away at sea. The relationship continued in secret for nearly a year, then Sebastiano abandoned his work as a priest to be with her. But at this point the woman decided to stay with her boyfriend. Everyone said the disappointment had deprived Sebastiano of his senses and speech.

“You have to know how to control women,” Cesare said. “I’ve known Rita for thirty-six years and there’s nothing about her I could possibly complain of, but if one day she stuck a knife between my ribs I wouldn’t look at her with astonishment as I died. It’s not a question of malice or bad faith. Women can just wake up one day with a new idea in their heads. It’s their nature. If you can’t accept this possibility, it’s better not to get involved at all. Let alone risk losing your speech!”

They heard the door behind them open. They turned to see Sebastiano on the threshold: he was holding the dog in his arms and had draped a cowhide around his shoulders, fastening it at the throat with a curtain cord.

“Hey!” Cesare said. “That’s my bedroom carpet!”

Sebastiano passed between them and went toward the trailer. His cloak smacked against his heels like a whip. It was a dappled cowhide but in some places so threadbare that the animal’s skin was visible.

“Can you let him have it?” Leonardo asked.

Cesare shrugged, picked his glass up from the floor and took a swig.

“Are these Barbera grapes?” he asked, indicating the trailer.

“Yes,” Leonardo said.

Cesare scratched his chin; he had not shaved that morning.

“I let Rita take all the cash,” he said, “but if you like, we could do a deal.”

In half an hour they had unloaded the grapes and replaced them on the trailer with a crate of potatoes and another containing cauliflowers, carrots, chicory, and a large pumpkin.

On the way back Leonardo hugged himself: a cold wind was blowing from the mountains and moving the tops of the trees. A few gloomy black clouds were floating around the moon and the countryside seemed full of unknown things. Once home, they unloaded the cases and Elio went back to the village. Left on their own, Leonardo and Sebastiano looked at the river: the water was shining like a strip of pewter against a black cloth. Bauschan sniffed the cowhide. Sebastiano bent down to stroke him.

“Nothing that goes from outside into a man can defile him,” he said.

Leonardo looked at him; his voice had passed through his body without leaving any trace as if through an empty pipe, but the silence around them had been completely transformed.

“Does that mean we should prepare ourselves?” he asked, but got no answer.

When Sebastiano had gone, Leonardo went into his book room and looked in St. Mark’s gospel. He read: “Nothing that goes from outside into a man can defile him. It is what comes out of a man that defiles him. For from inside, out of a man’s heart, come evil thoughts, acts of fornication, of theft, murder, adultery, ruthless greed, and malice; fraud, indecency, envy, slander, arrogance, and folly; these evil things all come from inside, and they defile the man.”

He tore out the page, folded it, and put it in his wallet. It was the first time he had heard Sebastiano speak. He was sure he would never hear him speak again.

Throughout the whole of October the line of cars continued to move slowly through the valley toward France, without thinning out. It was not easy to find out what was happening: the national radio had not been broadcasting for weeks and the only stations you could pick up were independent ones broadcasting music programs. Both landline telephones and cell phones were silent, and the Internet had been the first thing to crash. The only remaining source of information was television, which for several days now had been transmitting classical music concerts. A journalist made an appearance late one evening to read a government communication that claimed the situation was stable and urged citizens to be vigilant. Practical advice was also available about food and water, garbage collection, and the precautions to be taken by anyone planning to travel.

Halfway through the month a delegation went to the valley to interview the lined-up travelers. The picture they brought back was schizophrenic. Many maintained that the northeast of the country was in the hands of plundering gangs who took everything they could lay hands on and that although the National Guard controlled a few cities and major routes of communication, otherwise all law and order had broken down. Others, however, reported that things were near normal. They complained of a shortage of gasoline and other necessities but insisted they had seen or heard nothing of assaults or other violence. One man from T. said that in the city the market was crowded, the shops open as usual, and the streets well protected by the military. When asked in that case why he was taking his family to France, he answered, “To be on the safe side.”

The consequence, in any case, was that the country began emptying. The first to leave were those who had relatives or friends beyond the frontier, also families with children. Those who stayed behind were the old, people who were waiting for somebody, and those like Cesare Gallo, who would have stayed even if bombs had been falling.

Leonardo spent the month reading on the veranda or in the book room. Elio had closed his shop and passed by most days for a chat, updating him on who had left and on the general state of affairs. When the weather was fine, they would walk as far as the hill of Sant’Eugidio. There was a small Romanesque church on top of it, surrounded by an English-style churchyard, in which the most recent grave was a century old. Bauschan loved this walk for the river, the stretch of woodland, and the bushes from which he could make the thrushes rise.

When he ran out of provisions, Leonardo was forced to go into the village, which he had avoided since the night of the fire. Only Norina’s grocery, the bar, the baker’s, the pharmacy, and the butcher’s were still open. All the other shops had drawn their shutters with no notices to say why they were closed or for how long. Apart from a knot of old people leaning on the balustrade of the belvedere and commenting on the length of the line of cars down in the valley, the square was deserted. The narrow streets were full of the stench of the grapes rotting in the vineyards.

Waiting his turn at the grocer’s, Leonardo noticed the only subjects of conversation among those who were left were medications, gasoline, and cigarettes since no one knew if or when any of these would arrive. When he bought a loaf of bread, he told the three women who ran the shop that he would be going down to A. on business and would find out all he could about the availability of these goods; they looked at him as though he were a young blond volunteer sticking his head out of the window of a train heading for the front.

The next day he settled Bauschan on the rear seat, started the car, and drove through the village under the skeptical eyes of the old men on the belvedere. During the eighteen kilometers to A. he only passed two cars and one small truck going in the opposite direction. Many of the houses along the route had their windows barred and the fields looked neglected, but apart from this the hills had a gentle autumnal air while the Dolcetto vines were already a vivid yellow, the Barberas turning wine-red, and the Nebbiolos still green.