The Last Man Standing Read Online Free PDF

time and carefully replaced the book on the shelf reserved for the French nineteenth century.
    He woke about ten, and realizing the time, he ran into the kitchen where he found Bauschan collapsed on the carpet. He’s dead, he told himself, but when he touched the puppy and called him by name, he raised his muzzle toward the warm breath of Leonardo’s mouth. Then Leonardo noticed traces of feces in the room and realized that the dog had been exploring during the night. So, after washing the animal’s pus-encrusted eyes and giving him a little more milk from the glove, he took him around the house.
    As he did so he became convinced the best place for the dog at night would be the studio. This square, empty room had nothing in it that could be destroyed. It contained only an office chair and a coarse wooden table under its big window.
    It had been an attempt to reproduce the conditions in which he used to write in his studio in T., a pied-à-terre off an internal yard in one of the city’s main squares, where he had never wanted a telephone or doorbell or even his name on the door. But this project had been shipwrecked and the romance interrupted by the tumultuous events that had overturned his existence, and he had never gotten beyond the line he was writing when the telephone rang and the massacre started.
    He looked at the little white portable typewriter abandoned in the dust on the table. It had been a present from Alessandra so he could write on trains and in hotels. He had punched out two novels on those keys, expending many hours of his life on them at a time when writing was indispensable to him for defining himself to himself and to others. Then suddenly his writing had vanished, just as stadiums and competitions and training and sponsors can vanish from the life of an athlete when he inadvertently severs his Achilles tendon by stepping on a piece of glass while playing on the beach with his six-year-old son. This was exactly how writing had disappeared from his life, and it had become a different life; and all this only a few years before his publisher went bankrupt and the newspapers and magazines he used to write for closed down and reading became something comparable to the final extravagant request of a condemned man.
    “The room’s very well lit,” he told the puppy. “When you open your eyes you’ll see for yourself.”
    Leonardo washed his ears carefully in the shower and examined and disinfected the wound on his chest. Its lively pink color reassured him and, since the pain of his sciatica had subsided, he decided to ride his bike into the village. He searched for a shirt with a large pocket and a lightweight scarf to go around his neck, and then he put on the linen trousers he had folded on the chair and went out.
    The distance from house to village could easily be covered even by a cyclist as unfit as he was. The dog, his head sticking out of the pocket, enjoyed the fresh breeze downhill and hung his head on the uphill parts as if helping to pedal. When he reached the first houses, Leonardo left the asphalted road for an unpaved track that cut through a luxuriant hazel grove, ending in the yard of a large, neglected but busy farm.
    “Ottavio!” he called.
    Two very dirty and mischievous-looking sheepdogs emerged barking from the back of the farmhouse. Leonardo offered them a friendly hand, but they kept their distance and continued to bark.
    “Who’s there?” someone shouted from the cowshed.
    “Leonardo.”
    The dogs for some reason went quiet and moved off, going to lie down in the shadow of a tractor. The yard was a mess, with sacks of animal feed, buckets, and agricultural implements all over the place. Under cover in one corner was what might have been an ancient station wagon or hearse. Leonardo was studying it when Ottavio emerged from the cowshed.
    “What’s this?” he asked.
    Ottavio wiped his hands on his trousers.
    “A hearse.”
    “Yours?”
    “Of course, do you think I