Davide Longo - The Last Man Standing

As I write this, Sebastiano is watching me from the sofa with Bauschan stretched out at his feet, stroking him as if polishing a violin. He’s a tall man with a long, thin face. I have been familiar with this house for many years, it is where I used to come for massages from his mother.

When we arrived this morning we found Sebastiano in the kitchen, his cowhide over his shoulders and his suitcase packed. I don’t know how long he had been there. He certainly didn’t seem surprised to see us.

I greeted him, then asked him who had reduced the village to such a state and where everyone had gone. He didn’t answer. Then I asked him where Adele was.

He gave me a serious look, as if the answer must be utterly obvious. Then he took me to the room where her body was stretched on the couch, sewn into a sheet as used to be the custom in these parts. When I asked for an explanation, he pointed to a note on the bedside table. It had been written by Adele.

You refused to take any notice of what I said about the shoes, now stop being so stupid. I was perfectly happy to die; it was time and I had other things to think about. Dig a hole under the hornbeam and leave the children indoors so they don’t catch cold. If you can’t do it, just forget it. I haven’t been able to dream clearly whether you still have your hands or if you’ve already lost them. But whatever happens, don’t let anyone even think of burning my body. Do as I ask, then head for the sea. Take Sebastiano with you, you’ll find him useful. Best wishes for the future.

This afternoon I was digging her grave under the hornbeam when it began to rain. It was like a summer storm, so much water came pelting down. Sebastiano helped me carry the body to the foot of the tree, then he went in and he and the children watched from the window as I filled in the hole. I had never before even dug a trench, yet it seemed as natural to me as accepting a plateful of food from a neighbor and giving back the empty plate the next day washed and clean. While I shoveled that earth so heavy with rain, I thought a lot about my mother.

Then we all rested for an hour or two and dined in silence on soup and cheese.

Now the children are sleeping in Adele’s double bed, and soon Sebastiano will go up to his room. I shall stretch out by the stove on the sofa, with Bauschan on a towel I’ve laid out for him nearby. Tomorrow we have to get everything ready for our journey. It’s unbelievable how long it takes to make preparations when you have nothing. Tomorrow morning I shall go into the village. I must find a small map and some eye drops for Alberto.

The village looks as if it has been hit by a retreating army blinded by hunger and defeat. Everything that could not be carried out of the houses has been smashed or burned. A lot of furniture has been thrown out of the windows into the street, and on the outer walls are graffiti in spray paint or charcoal. IT’S US / YOU CAN’T AVOID / EVEN IF YOU WANT TO / OR ELSE LOOK OUT. I CAN’T SLEEP, I CAN’T SLEEP, I CAN’T SLEEP AND I’M IN GRIEF. WINGS, NEEDLES, IDEALS AND BONFIRES. SUPREMACY. NOTHING COMES OF NOTHING. They were like lines written by someone who has glanced through Nietzsche and then decided he’s too much trouble. The writing is in large shaky capitals, with errors of grammar and syntax. Some are slogans in basic English, as if written on a school excursion that got out of hand. I also came across syringes, empty bottles of strong alcohol, and nylon bags into which someone had poured what looked like glue. In the church the pews have been piled up and set on fire and windows broken.

There’s no trace of the inhabitants or even of their bodies. All I found was a cat feeding four kittens. I heard them mewing from the road and went into what used to be the hairdresser’s salon. Jars of cosmetics had been overturned and an enormous penis drawn on the mirror. The cat was sitting in the armchair where customers once waited their turn. When she saw Bauschan she hissed without moving so as not to disturb the kittens’ feeding. Bauschan pressed himself against my leg. He seemed sorry to have caused any distress. I picked up a bottle of what looked like shampoo and we left.

At the chemist’s house I found eye drops but no food. Whoever had turned the house upside down can have had no interest in medicine because these had been left all over the cellar and attic. I helped myself to some preparations for the relief of influenza and inflammation as well as some vitamins. In the car in the garage was a map of the Côte d’Azur, which also included this part of Italy.

When we passed back through the square, Bauschan stopped in front of Elio’s house and looked at me. The note on which we had written that we were leaving for Basel was still on the door. When I saw it I was moved to pity, as if for something from my earliest childhood. I stroked Bauschan and told him it was no longer our house; then I turned to go where I had wanted to go from the start.

The gate had been torn off its hinges, though one of its uprights was still chained to the post that had been uprooted with it. The door of the house had suffered the same fate.

What a lot of trouble they’ve gone to, I thought.

The table where we had talked over tea about Glenn Gould, Marin Marais, and early eighteenth-century painting was lying sawn in two among books, pots, and pieces of foam rubber. Flour had been strewn on the floor, but there was a smell of game in the air as if a large wild boar had been living there. Two cushions had been ripped apart and were hanging from the chandelier.

Climbing the stairs to the upper floor, I noticed my heart beating fast and realized I had never listened to it closely before. The bedrooms were a mess and an item of clothing or curtain had been burned in the bathtub but, as I had hoped when I went into the house, there was no trace of either Elvira or her mother.

I picked one of Bernhard’s books up from the floor then, before leaving, I went into the garage, sat down in the red car, lowered the seat, and closed my eyes. On the back seat was a dressing-gown belt. I dozed for a few minutes and dreamed I was stroking the prominent vertebrae of Elvira’s naked back. My dreaming hand moved clumsily, not like caressing a woman, more as if running along a railing. Yet what I was doing gave me great pleasure and I knew it was the same for her. The nape of her neck was moving gently. I felt sexual excitement. Something I had not expected from my body for a long time.

Then I walked through the village streets. The children and Sebastiano were waiting for me, but all I wanted was to feel the weight of Bernhard’s book against my leg as I walked.

In the old house I used to spend hours in a room I called “the book room.” A place where I had collected thousands of novels, essays, treatises, and books on art. I had read many of them more than once, underlining, annotating, and dissecting them to extract instruction for myself and my students. Some had become bastions to shore up the walls of my city, and others had served as passports to my far-off lands. Syllogisms of what life was or should have been.

I haven’t the slightest wish to know what has happened to them. Unless someone has burned down the house I assume they are still there feeding mold and mice. I have infinite love for those stories, although I know they have been to blame for what I am: an inadequate man.

Lucia and I have divided the food and clothes between my backpack, Sebastiano’s knapsack, and a small bag the children will take turns carrying. We have made an omelet with four eggs and some polenta. When we have eaten that, we will still have the soups, the powdered milk, the muesli, some cans, and the fruit in syrup we found in Adele’s larder. These will last us for a week at least.