Davide Longo - The Last Man Standing

The old woman said no more, as if that was the end of the matter. Leonardo smiled weakly.

“Will you be staying here much longer?”

The woman gave him a sharp look.

“Where else should I go?”

“But I thought your daughter was waiting for you in Switzerland.”

“She’s not in Switzerland anymore,” the woman said, removing a crumb from the table. “When her husband died, she married again, a German. Now she lives in Germany. She has suffered, but for the better: her first husband was an inconsistent man. He died at V., so far as we can understand from whoever writes those official letters. But the one she has now seems a lot better, altogether another kettle of fish.”

“Why don’t you join her?”

The woman looked at him as if he had just wet himself.

“Don’t you ever watch television? Have you no idea what’s happening? When the lines were still working, my daughter used to call me every day and beg me, I’m not exaggerating, beg me to let her come and get me. But I always said no. That it wasn’t worth the risk. I’m ninety-two, I lack for nothing here, and she’s the only child I have left. You have a daughter, too, if I remember correctly?”

Leonardo lifted the cup to his lips, regardless of the fact that he had finished his coffee.

“Yes.”

“Does your wife allow you to see her?”

“No. I haven’t seen her for seven years.”

“So I thought.”

For a moment they studied different corners of the room in silence.

“Now I must get on with my journey,” Leonardo said.

“Where do you live?”

“At M.”

“Is that the village where The Little Song of Tobias the Dog is set?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ve gone back to your childhood home?”

“Yes.”

They heard a horn. A small tanker had stopped in front of the gate. There were two men in the cab.

“Not that I wish it for you,” the woman said, “but perhaps sooner or later you’ll want to start writing again.”

Leonardo smiled and shook his head. They watched the bald man open the gate and the driver bring the truck into the courtyard. Once out of his cab, the driver put on work gloves and attached a thick, ridged pipe to the tank while the bald man opened a manhole cover fastened to the ground by two locks. Both men had a pistol in a holster under their jackets. Leonardo stared at the ocher countryside and a sky the color of curdled milk.

“I really must be on my way,” he said.

He picked up his duffel. The woman fixed her eyes on the yellowing lily of the valley in the center of the table and waited until he had reached the door before calling him by his surname.

“The best possible interpretation is that you did something stupid,” she said. “But no one can ever forgive you for what you did.”

Leaving the hotel, he drove north on the same secondary roads as he had come by. The autostrada would have saved him several hours, but he had heard of fake checkpoints at which travelers were robbed, and for this reason he preferred a less obvious route well away from the larger towns.

He drove with the window down, the hot, clammy wind filling his shirt; from time to time he took a mouthful of water from the bottle beside him. Since starting out three days before he had passed about a dozen cars and several military convoys. The villages he passed through were mostly deserted, with only an occasional old man sitting in a doorway, a boy on a bicycle, or the face of a woman drawn to her window by the sound of the car.

About noon he stopped to fill up with gasoline. When he beeped his horn a man came out through the gate to the service station while another stayed in the doorway with his rifle lowered. Leonardo got out of the car, let himself be searched, and said how much gas he wanted. The man, who might have been about fifty, and wearing a rock band T-shirt, got into the Polar and drove it into the enclosure. Leonardo tried to check through the grill how much was being put in, but the back of the car was hidden by the prefabricated hut where the two men lived, and where a young woman with dark skin and curly hair was leaning out of a window. Leonardo imagined she must be tanned from working all summer in the open, unless she was an outsider who had got in before they closed the frontier.

The man in the T-shirt brought the car out again.

“See you later,” Leonardo said as he paid.

“Take care,” the man said, turning away.

Leonardo pulled over a couple of kilometers after the service station. Before getting out of the car he looked around. The countryside was flat and the yellow grass, mostly unmown, was bending over in the hot wind. A long way off was a hut and the ruins of what must once have been a kiln for making bricks. Then a line of mulberries and some electric pylons disappearing into the distance in the direction of an almost invisible group of houses.

Leonardo listened to the silence for a while then got out of the car and checked that the cans were in place. He opened them and sniffed to make sure the contents had not been replaced while the car was being filled up, then he closed the trunk and mopped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. He became aware of an acid stench of decomposition.

He looked into the ditch separating the road from the fields. There was a dog lying in it, its belly swollen, a swarm of flies whirling around its eyes and open mouth. A black Labrador killed by another dog or poisoned.

He was about to turn back to the car when he heard a whimper.

A few meters from the dead dog, the ditch disappeared into a small tunnel no wider than a bicycle wheel. He understood at once what was going on.

He returned to the car, started it, and moved on. He switched on the radio, but the preset came up with nothing, so he switched it off again and drove for several kilometers without slowing down until he was forced to stop at a crossroads.

Checking to make sure there was no other car with the right of way, he noticed a group of men not far off in a field. There were six of them, armed with rifles, and they seemed not to have noticed him: two were using a long pole to explore the ditch that bordered the field, while the others were following them with their eyes on the grass.

Leonardo put the car into gear to drive away but, as he engaged the clutch, six, ten, perhaps twenty dogs jumped out of the ditch the men were searching and all began to run in the same direction. Taken by surprise, the men hesitated then started yelling and shooting at the tapering shapes racing through the grass. The dogs had almost reached a water channel that would have given them protection, when, for no apparent reason, they turned at right angles and offered the wider target of their sides to the hunters. Leonardo saw one or two roll over in the grass, others vanished as if swallowed up by a hole, yet others exploded into reddish puffs of air. Then the shooting stopped and the men spread out to comb the field. An occasional isolated shot followed and then total silence.

Leonardo realized his foot was still on the clutch. He put the car in neutral and took his foot off. The engine struggled, but did not stall.

The men went back to the irrigation trench from which the dogs had come. Leonardo saw some of them go down into the ditch and throw out what looked like small soft bags full of earth. After a few minutes there must have been about thirty of these, piled in a heap.

Then the men scattered across the field and dragged the carcasses of the dogs toward their puppies, and when this was done one of them took a can from his knapsack and poured the contents over the heap.

Leonardo closed his eyes, his chilled sweat-soaked shirt sticking to his chest. When he opened his eyes again a column of black smoke was rising in the air. He stared, paralyzed, for a few moments with the acrid smell of burned fur coming into the car through the window, then he engaged the gears and made a U-turn. Moving away, he thought he could see in his rear mirror the men waving their arms to attract his attention, but he continued to accelerate.