Davide Longo - The Last Man Standing

“You will sit down at a table,” he read, “facing each other with a knife. One of you will be given two minutes to cut off one of his own fingers. If he fails, he will be killed. If he succeeds, the other will then have two minutes to do the same. The survivor will be the one who cuts off one finger more than the other. If you both cut off all ten of your fingers, you will both live.”

The cripple folded the paper, put it back into his wallet, and slipped the wallet back into his inside pocket. The older man looked up at Richard. He was weeping; Richard smiled at him.

“Have you understood the rules?”

“You filthy fanatic,” the man with black hair said.

Richard nodded benevolently and gave the sign to begin. Three youths unloaded from one of the trucks a table that must have come from a restaurant or some other business premises. Its Formica surface was marked by deep cuts and was stained black. They set it a couple of meters from the bonfire. Night had surrounded the camp, dividing each figure into light and shadow: the brightness of the fire danced warmly on each face, while each back merged with the darkness of the forest.

The two prisoners were untied and made to sit facing each other at the table. The young people settled cross-legged in a circle. Leonardo could see Alberto and Salomon. He could also see the two youths who had captured them. The blond one had his arm around the shoulders of a very thin girl with an aquiline nose and long hair, while the thickset one, who had been involved in the capture of these two new prisoners, was now staring at them with curiosity. The bald girl was huddled under the car out of the rain. Richard blessed the two men one more time, and then, taking Lucia by the hand, went back into the trailer. The cripple had set a small hourglass in the middle of the table beside a knife with a wooden handle. The hourglass was the kind once used for parlor games. Leonardo remembered having one when playing Latin Scrabble with a fellow student. The knife had a curved blade ending in a double point, the type often used for cheese.

The cripple tossed a coin in the air, caught it, and covered it with the palm of his other hand.

“Choose,” he said.

The white-haired man stared at the knife and the hourglass, his head shaken by small jerks that seemed to mean no. Rain was still cutting across the circle of light from the bonfire. Apart from the flickering flames and slowly rising spirals of gray smoke, the whole world seemed to be holding its breath. The tattooed man wiped his forehead to stop the blood still running into his eyes.

“Tails,” he said, in a voice that seemed to come from the far end of a long corridor.

The cripple lifted his hand.

“Heads it is.” He put the coin back in his pocket, turned over the hourglass, and, taking his pistol from his belt, pointed it at the head of the tattooed man, who looked at the other prisoner.

“Can you do it?” the tattooed man asked in a firm voice.

The white-haired man’s eyes were fixed on the knife in the middle of the table while tears continued to fall freely down his badly shaved cheeks.

“Stop crying and look at me.”

The man looked up for an instant, and then he dropped his eyes to the table again. His curved back was racked by sobs.

“Look at me and tell me you will do it.”

“One minute!” the cripple announced.

The tattooed man wiped blood from his eyes with his forearm. He looked at the white head of the other who was staring at his hands abandoned on his knees. A thread of mucus was running down his chin to his stomach.

“Do you want to live, or will they be doing you a favor by killing you?”

The old man shook his head.

“Thirty seconds!” the cripple said.

“All you have to do is cut off one finger. Can’t you do that?”

“Twenty seconds!” the cripple said, cocking his pistol.

“Can’t you do it?” shouted the younger man.

The old man looked up as if, Leonardo thought, in final farewell, like someone saying good-bye to his country or to a woman he knows he will never see again.

“Ten seconds!”

The younger man grabbed the knife and lopped off his own little finger.

The young people exploded in applause.

Putting down the knife, the man looked at his finger lying on the Formica table top. A small pool of blood had already formed around his hand.

“You fool,” he said, looking at the man with white hair.

The cripple picked up the bloodstained knife, wiped it on his trousers, placed it in front of the older man, and turned over the hourglass. Leonardo closed his eyes.

It was already well into the night when they took the tattooed man to the cage. They opened the door and he walked in. Then for a while he stood beside the bars, watching the young people dancing and passing the body of the man with white hair over their heads, like the corpse of an ancient rock idol. Then, when they threw the body on the fire, he went to sit down against the wooden wall, at the exact point where Salomon had huddled when he first came into the cage.

Leonardo watched from the other side of the wagon. The man’s face was thin and lined and his cheekbones prominent, but the general impression he made was still one of compact solidity. In the shifting light of the bonfire his eyes were like wrought iron.

“A doctor will come and treat you,” Leonardo said.

The man did not move. He was sitting with his arms around his knees. The wound where his finger had been was bleeding profusely. A red stain had already formed on the floor.

“Have you played this game too?”

“No,” Leonardo said.

The man swallowed.

“Why are they keeping you here then?”

“To dance.”

“They make you dance?”

Leonardo said nothing. The man seemed to be smiling.

“Was that man your friend?”

“No. I found him hiding in a cellar a few days ago. I should never have taken him with me.”

“Where were you heading?”

“For the coast. They say there are fortified villages there where you can live. All you have to do is pass the quarantine. But we stopped at that house. There was a stove, and we’d found some sunflower seeds. It was a mistake.”

They stopped to listen to the music as it spread over the bodies, the cars, the trucks, the coach, the trailer, the flight of steps, and the facade of the building picked out by the flames from the darkness. Apart from these things, the world was black and inscrutable.

“Where are you from?”

“R.”

“Did you walk from R.?”

The man did not admit it, but Leonardo understood this to have been the case.

“How is it down there?”

“Same as here. Plus deserters from the National Guard who shoot at anything that moves. I had a bicycle, some blankets, a water can, food; they took all of it. On the Apennines I ran into an army camp. They had tanks, trucks, armor, everything, all unable to move. No fuel. They hadn’t been able to communicate with their HQ for months. Every day one or other of the soldiers disappeared, taking his weapons with him.”

Leonardo saw Salomon standing still, a few paces from the bonfire. He was looking at the body of the man with white hair, by now reduced to a blackened puppet. About thirty youngsters were still dancing around the flames; the others had gone to bed. A cold rain was still falling. He looked back at the man with him, who seemed to have dozed off.

“I could tear off a piece of tank top to bind up your finger. You’re losing a lot of blood.”

Without opening his eyes, the man shook his head.

“More to the point, have you got any water?” he said.

“No, but at first light the doctor will bring you some.”

“Who’s the doctor?”