Davide Longo - The Last Man Standing

Next morning the company came out at about ten and again stayed out all day. Leonardo carefully searched through the electronic croaking noises of the radio for a news bulletin, but in the end was forced to admit defeat. For a little he listened to a French station whose programs had nothing to do with what was happening: there was a public phone-in on the suitability or otherwise of having sex with one’s work colleagues: 70 percent thought it would cause tensions and reduce productivity. For lunch they had cauliflower and potatoes. Neither Lucia nor Alberto showed any sign of noticing the explosions that reached them from time to time from the hills, but Lucia got up and switched on the radio, which she had turned off as soon as she came into the kitchen. At the end of the meal they each retired to their own room.

Leonardo had a nap, brushed Bauschan, and put some apples on to cook. While the pan bubbled on the stove giving off a fragrant steam, he reread the whole of Flaubert’s A Simple Heart and felt he was beginning to understand something of the woman’s meekness in the face of pain and sorrow that he had never previously grasped.

That night he was woken by a smell of burning, and going out onto the balcony, which faced north, he saw a huge fire on the plain, possibly in F. or a town of similar size.

In the morning he saw Norina’s husband, rifle on shoulder, head for the hills. But he did not return in the evening.

Those with him on the previous days went out to look for him, but finding no trace, gave up the search. On Monday, in the presence of the priest, they forced open the locked door of the grocery and divided what was left on the shelves among the inhabitants in equal parts.

Leonardo’s share was a packet of biscuits, a savoy cabbage, some mints, some prunes, a cheese past its sell-by date, and some mahogany hair dye. Not seeing Elvira in the line at the grocer’s, he went to the lane where she lived.

They had tea together in the room where they had chatted before. Bernhard’s works were no longer on the table, replaced by several books of poems and a catalog of local nineteenth-century painters. Leonardo asked after her mother. She answered with her usual gentle smile that nothing had changed. They did not discuss the disagreeable events of the last few weeks in the village; Elvira simply admitted that she was aware of them, then they discussed two authors, one American and the other Chilean, that they had both much loved. For half an hour Leonardo talked about these books just as he would once have done when such things were a vital part of his life and the person he then was. As they chattered they ate some of the biscuits that Leonardo had brought and Elvira made a second pot of tea. This time the stove had been lit and a pleasant heat warmed Leonardo’s right side and Elvira’s left; she was wearing a cork-colored sweater and her face looked rather more tired than the week before.

Then they talked about painters and Leonardo, listening to her, became convinced that if he had met her sooner the last seven years of his life would have been brighter. In their rare moments of silence they were caressed by the viola da gamba of Jordi Savall.

Realizing it was getting late, Leonardo revealed the reason for his visit. Elvira said she was sorry, but that she did completely understand his decision. When they kissed each other good-bye on the cheek, Leonardo noticed how soft her skin was and wanted to take her face in his hands, but he resisted the urge.

Alone once more in the street, he started for Adele’s house, but as soon as he was out of the village he stopped. For about ten minutes he looked at the gray plain where leaning towers of black smoke were rising from burning villages and the air was full of tiny fragments of ash. The distant mountains seemed to be looking on with indifference.

After gazing at the mountains for what seemed a short time, but during which darkness fell, he turned on his heel and went back to the village.

For supper he boiled the cabbage and added some spaghetti to the same water, producing a sort of Vietnamese soup that the children claimed they could not eat. But when Lucia tried to put the cheese on the table, he told her to leave it in the fridge.

“We’ll need that tomorrow for the journey.”

They watched him pour out the last spoonfuls of soup. When they realized he had nothing more to say, they dropped their eyes and hurried to finish what was left on their plates.

The only signs of life they saw in the first hour of their journey were smoke from the chimneys of a few houses and a couple of cars heading in the opposite direction. As he approached them, the man driving the first car slowed down to give them a long, calculating look. Leonardo answered by raising a hand in greeting, but the man did not respond and the car vanished in his rearview mirror. In contrast, the second had been an ancient Fiat in metallic paint. Its middle-aged driver could have been a priest, or just a man who loved black pullovers and Korean-style shirts. There was an elderly woman beside him, and a single bed, complete with a mattress and a turquoise quilt, was tied to the baggage rack.

Leonardo often had to slow down and move into the other lane to avoid colliding with cars abandoned on the roadway. There were trucks too, their doors open and stripped completely bare. Some had been set on fire and reduced to black carcasses on which the white snow had settled as if in mockery.

The houses, sheds, and bars lining the main road had open doors and broken windows and looked to have been uninhabited for a long time. It was a cold, overcast day, but an occasional ray of sunlight filtered through the clouds and the rich brown of turned earth could sometimes be seen in the fields.

They had packed the trunk tightly with two suitcases, a box of blankets, the radio, medicine, books, and a bag with provisions to last several days. Leonardo had calculated that if he went no faster than 80 kph they would have enough gas to reach M. Beyond there it would be at least another 200 kilometers, during which he counted on being able to refuel. They would then head for Switzerland. Even though one of their permits was in Alessandra’s name, Leonardo hoped to be able to cross the border with the children. Once in Switzerland, they would go to Basel, where Lucia had the address of some relatives of Alberto’s father. They planned no further ahead than that.

After the ring road at C., they entered the main highway. On their right they passed the old foundry, which had been closed for fifty years already and was now merging perfectly with its surroundings. Alberto, sitting at the back, was gazing at the countryside and ignoring Bauschan curled up at his side.

“Stop!” Alberto shouted suddenly.

“Why?” Lucia said.

“A sheep!”

“Oh, shut up,” Lucia said. “We’ve only just started.”

“You shut up! We must stop, I said.”

Leonardo pulled over, and before the car had completely stopped the boy opened the door and got out. By the time Leonardo and Lucia followed, he and Bauschan had already rushed off, leaving a trail of footprints. The sheep was standing alone in the middle of a field, about a hundred meters from the road. Leonardo studied it from a distance to make sure it was real, then looked back at the main road disappearing toward the city. The city had once been his home and it was a long time since he had seen it, but looking toward it now he felt nothing.

“No one seems to be around,” Lucia said.

Leonardo looked at his daughter, smiled, and nodded. The evening before, he had heard her weeping in her room. When he had come back from the garage, where he had been using new tape to fix the sheet of nylon that served as a car window, the girl was asleep. On her bedside table was a photograph of her mother and a notice for the door to say they had left for Basel and the Ritch family.