Davide Longo - The Last Man Standing

“In her room,” Salomon said. “She hasn’t been out all day.”

Leonardo left the bottles on the beach and hurried to the house. Lucia was lying on her bed, her face and chest covered with sweat. She was holding her belly in her hands, breathing with short regular breaths. Her face was calm and concentrated, and her eyes were fixed on the ceiling as if what she must do had been written there by all the women who had lived on earth before her.

“She’s not ill, is she?” Salomon asked, putting his head around the door.

“Everything’s normal,” Leonardo said. “Go and call Sebastiano.”

While the boy ran to the beach, Leonardo reached under the bed for a large wooden box once intended for quality whisky or cognac, and where for the last few months he had been storing towels and sheets to protect them from dust; then he helped Lucia up, took off the cover stained by the breaking of her waters, spread a clean sheet on the bed, and made her lie down again. She grasped his hand. There was a light in her eyes that seemed to come from some far-off depths, which were filled with the same simplicity as when a flower is ready to break through the earth. Leonardo gave her a smile; she smiled back, her lips tense with effort. Another part of her had returned from that distant land. Sebastiano’s footsteps were at the door.

“Please put on some water to boil,” Leonardo said without turning around.

Sebastiano went away.

“Salomon, come here,” Leonardo said.

The boy took a few steps into the room.

“Sit down and hold her hand.”

The child sat on the edge of the bed and took Lucia’s hand. She was now taking longer breaths.

“Where are you going?” Salomon asked Leonardo.

“To the next room, I’ll be back in a minute.”

In the kitchen, Leonardo asked Sebastiano to wash his right hand for him with soap and clean his nails; then asked Sebastiano to wash his own hands in the same way, because he was going to be needed.

When he got back to Salomon, the boy was exactly where he had left him.

“Now go and take Bauschan with you,” he said. “When I need you, I’ll call you.” Then he sat down beside Lucia and waited.

The little girl was born in the middle of the night and cried the moment she came from her mother’s body. Sebastiano, who had been sitting to one side holding the lantern, helped Leonardo clean the baby and wrap her in a towel; then they passed her to Lucia who hugged her against her full breasts.

“Please go and call Salomon,” Leonardo said.

Darkness took over when Sebastiano left the room with the lantern, and the baby stopped crying. Leonardo listened to the breathing of mother and child. There was no mystery, he realized. Just time and the human beings who pass through time.

The boy returned with Sebastiano and they approached the bed together.

“Would you like to do something very, very important?” Leonardo said.

“Yes,” Salomon answered.

Uncovering the baby, Leonardo took the umbilical cord in his fingers and formed a small loop in it. Sebastiano handed Salomon the knife.

“Put it in here,” Leonardo said.

“Like this?”

“Yes, that’s right. Now cut.”

The child did as he was told and cut the cord, then he lifted the knife in the air. Leonardo took it from him and gave it back to Sebastiano.

“You’ve done a great job.”

“I didn’t hurt her, did I?”

“No. Now go to bed. Sebastiano will go with you.”

An hour later, after Lucia had fallen asleep, Leonardo, who had kept awake until that moment, picked up the baby and took her out of the room. Salomon was lying asleep on the animal skin in the kitchen while Sebastiano, sitting at the table, was filling the last page of the exercise book in his oblique writing. He got up and offered the lamp to Leonardo, who shook his head to show he did not need it.

He climbed to the highest point of the island where the euphorbia was beginning to put out new leaves with the approach of autumn.

When he reached the ruins of the old tower, he sat down on the pile of stones and looked across to the moonlit coast. The air was warm and there was a faint hiss crossing the night, like the overtones of a note sounded centuries ago but still vibrating in a closed room.

Leonardo unwrapped the baby and lifted her on his only hand toward the moon. For an instant she seemed to levitate weightlessly. Then he pulled her back close to him and kissed her forehead; she smelled of newly kneaded dough.

When they got back Lucia was awake. She laid the baby at her side, and by the weak light from the window, watched her agitate her tiny hands until she found the warmth of the breast.

“Papa?” Lucia called when Leonardo had already reached the door.

He turned.

“Is this the world?”

“Yes, my sweet, this is the world.”

In the morning, at first light, two boats left the mainland bringing presents to the island.

DAVIDE LONGO was born in Carmognola in the province of Torino. In addition to novels he writes books for children, short stories, and articles, and his texts have been adapted for musical and theatrical productions. He lives in Turin, where he works as a teacher.

SILVESTER MAZZARELLA is a distinguished translator of Italian and Swedish literature.

© 2010 by Davide Longo

Translation © 2012 by Silvester Mazzarella

Originally published in Italy as L’Uomo Verticale by Fandango Libri in 2010

First published in the United States by Quercus in 2013

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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