The Last Man Standing

by Davide Longo

  “What have you done?” Leonardo said.

  No answer.

  Leonardo knelt down by the dog and freed his head. No sooner did Bauschan see the light again than he yelped and tried to lick Leonardo’s hands. While untying the dog’s paws Leonardo looked at Alberto and for the first time saw him smile.

  Norina’s funeral was delayed to give her husband time to find a coffin. The last one available in the village had been used for Achille Conterno and the only alternative was to make one from whatever wood could be found around the place. But her husband would not hear of it and set out early in the morning for A. in his off-road vehicle.

  He came back late in the afternoon. Leonardo heard the car in the square, and getting up from the table where he was peeling potatoes, saw the Land Rover parked in front of the shop door. A large dark wood coffin was sticking out of the open trunk, secured with a couple of elastic cords. It looked big enough for two people.

  The next morning the bells rang out and some seventy people gathered at the church to pay their last respects. Leonardo looked for Elvira among them, but she was not there.

  Studying the faces, Leonardo realized no children were present. Then he realized he had not seen any for a long time. Where were the young people? It was as if they had disappeared gradually without anyone noticing. The sound of motor scooters, the voices when the coach unloaded them onto the square on their return from school, their crabwise walk, their satchels, their smart clothes, their earphones; all these seemed to be images as far off in time as his own childhood. He felt a small pain between his shoulders and felt he was very close to understanding something that required courage to accept and that offered no return to what had been before.

  Realizing the distress it would have caused him to pursue this idea to the very end, he leaned back in the pew, vaguely sleepy. For a few minutes he drifted off into an innocuous beyond, an island in the middle of a river where holidaymakers and weekenders were picnicking in the fields, calling their children to come quickly and eat food they had spread out on checkered cloths. Several rowing boats were moving on the river, which at that point was as slow and still as a lake. The rowers were city men with sleeves rolled up to their elbows. Their companions and friends, female and male, were sitting in the bows looking at the vegetation on the banks and the peaceful activities of the holidaymakers. Several of the women were holding parasols. The voices that reached him were speaking French; French men directing French women and children playing French games. Through the leaves of a willow he glimpsed a car, one of the first, as elegant as an inkstand.

  The smell of incense recalled him to the cold church and the seventy tired-looking mourners. Norina’s husband was standing in the front row in his National Guard uniform, with his garnet-red beret, well-polished shoes, and riding breeches, on his chest a medal as big as a breakfast cracker.

  When Mass was over, Don Piero asked him to say a few words in memory of his wife. He walked with firm steps to the lectern and declared in a loud clear voice that his wife had been the best companion a man could ever have and he was proud of not having submitted to the crime with bowed head as most people did these days. Even when he lowered his voice to recall their habit of bathing their feet together in the same bowl each evening, he still glared disdainfully at the faces in front of him.

  The coffin was so large it took eight men to carry it out of the church.

  While the cortège was making its way to the cemetery behind Mariano’s pick-up truck, Leonardo looked up at the windows of their home and recognized Lucia’s pale face behind the curtains. He raised his hand and she waved back.

  In the days after the shooting, a veil of silence descended on their gestures, expectations, and fears. They exchanged a few comments about food, about the books Lucia was reading, and about the shower in the bathroom that was about to give up the ghost, but only as a way to avoid talking about what they had seen. Leonardo said nothing about what Alberto had done to Bauschan. They spent most of their time in the kitchen with the stove and radio. They ate what little food they had without complaint, washed themselves and their clothes, kept the fire burning, and slept a little more than strictly necessary.

  “We’re dying,” Leonardo told himself, replacing his hands in his pockets as they processed toward the cemetery.

  On the way he heard that the evening after the murder there had been a long discussion among the parish priest, Norina’s husband, and the men who had killed the fourth bandit. Don Piero had maintained that the four intruders, though thieves and murderers, were not outsiders, and so a funeral should also be arranged for them; whether anyone attended it or not was another matter. But the others argued that the four should be treated the same as the outsiders shot in November.

  Apparently the decisive opinion had been Mariano’s, who had said he was not willing to have his car used to transport the thieves to the cemetery, and if the priest wanted a funeral, then he must bury them in his own garden himself. Faced with this, Don Piero gave way and the four were taken out of the village and buried in the forest before the ground froze at night. Papers had been found in the pockets of one of the men and the woman. They had been husband and wife and from a small village near V. She had been a radiologist, he an artisan. The youngest carried no documents, but was probably their son since he had red hair like his mother. The third man may have been a relative or just someone who had joined their gang. He had no papers, and his face had been disfigured by bullets.

  Not much time was spent over prayers at Norina’s interment. It was beginning to snow again and everyone seemed on the point of collapse from exhaustion and hunger. Three men, including her husband, placed a heavy slab of marble over her grave to close it, then her husband added a silver frame with a photograph of her and started walking back to the village followed by the others.

  Leonardo spent the afternoon in the kitchen listening to old songs and ads for furniture manufacturers and car dealers on the radio. At about four he heard voices in the square and saw a dozen armed men gathered in front of the shop, all locals. When Norina’s husband came out, they went with him on the road leading to R. and while the light lasted shots could be heard, only ending when dark fell and the group returned. The men went up into the apartment over the shop, and Leonardo could hear drunken singing until late at night.

  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 bi
scuits, 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.

  “Best not stray too far from the car,” Leonardo said.

  Lucia looked right and left as if about to cross a busy road, then jumped over the small ditch and went into the field. Leonardo followed.

  In fact, it was not a sheep but a longhaired nanny goat, tied to an irrigation pipe by a cord about three or four meters long. The animal must have been there for some time because she had marked out a neat circle in the snow. Bauschan, stopping outside the circle, contemplated her with a thoughtful air. Alberto had already tried to approach her, but though showing no signs of fear, she kept moving with little jerks to keep out of his reach.

  “Why have they tied her up here?” Lucia asked.

  Leonardo studied the animal’s black, brown, and white coat. Her long beard looked like tow and her black eyes reflected the fluorescence of the snow. Behind her neck, right under her horns, she had been bitten by some animal, perhaps a small or elderly dog not strong enough to overcome her. Leonardo looked around; the shape of a farm could be seen in the distance. He calculated that it was much further from the farm to them than from them to the car. The surrounding plain, if you excluded the ditch by the road and a line of stumpy and graceless mulberry trees, offered no hiding place.

  “We could set her free,” Lucia said.

  “What are you talking about?!” Alberto exclaimed.

  “You want to leave her tied up here? There isn’t even any grass for her.”

  Alberto made a lunge for the goat, which leaped sideways and bleated. Alberto slipped and fell on the mud but immediately got up again, wiping his hands on his trousers. His shirt looked like a sort of short skirt under his jeans jacket.

  “We’ve got to kill her,” he said.

  Leonardo and Lucia looked at him. There was something adult and cruel in his face.

  “Is that supposed to be a joke?” Lucia said.

  Alberto held his sister’s gaze.

  “We’ll kill her and cook her, like Indians.”

  “What Indians?”

  “Hunters in the forest.”

  “There are no forests here, and we have other things to eat.�
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  “I don’t want to eat other things, I want the sheep.”

  “But if we can’t even catch her . . .”

  “You must help me, we can catch her together.”

  “And then?”

  “We’ll kill her.”

  “Who’ll kill her?”

  “Leonardo!”

  Leonardo looked at the boy who was staring at him with his upper lip slightly raised. It was the first time he had ever heard Alberto say his name, and it seemed a word full of angles.

  “I’m not capable of killing her,” he admitted.

  “Not with your hands.”

  “Then how?” Lucia asked.

  “With a knife.”

  “We don’t have a knife.”

  “Then we hit her on the head with a stone.”

  Lucia took a couple of steps toward her brother.

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “I could do it, I’m not a bit scared.”

  Lucia pushed the boy aside and went toward the pipe where the cord was tied, but before she could get there Alberto flung a handful of earth at her.

  “What’s that you’ve thrown at me?”

  “Shit!”

  “Stop it, or I’ll slap you.”

  “Bitch! Black bitch!”

  Lucia slapped him. For a few seconds everything was suspended, as if they were at the bottom of a swimming pool filled with formalin. Even the goat stood still and watched with a slightly lowered head, apparently distracted by other thoughts. Then Alberto started running toward the car and after a few steps fell to the ground, thrashing about with his arms and legs.

  They ran to him. Lucia knelt down and tried to hold him still and received a kick on the breast that knocked the breath out of her, but she finally managed to calm him, holding him close for several minutes. He was struggling for breath, his face marked with mud. He was not weeping. Leonardo, standing over him, became aware of a warm smell of urine and realized he had pissed himself.