The Beautiful Tombs

The Beautiful Tombs (The Cask of Amontillado)

The thousand injuries of Fortunato were due to receive another as the radio spoke in transitioning languages at the international airport. Italian was the most prominent. A family of Americans waited impatiently for English.

            When at last the father could ascertain for himself that the shuttle for their hotel was leaving at approximately 19:00, he checked his watch. 1:57 p.m. He looked toward the younger of his two daughters.

            “Considering that Italy is about five hours ahead of what you are used to,” she spouted, “you need to reset your watch. Also, we are in Europe now, so all clocks will be in twenty-four hour format. Therefore, according to my calculations, we now have about two minutes to get to the shuttle.”

            The father cursed loudly. He ushered his family through the airport. He kept firm hold on the wrist of his younger, mathematician of a daughter, for she had a tendency to dash into every magazine store in search of intellectual conversation. The mother, however, kept a firm hold on the wrist of her older, translator of a daughter, for she had a tendency to disappear into every map store in search of new places to explore.

            Upon persuading the impatient shuttle driver to allow the family onto the shuttle, the mother decided that they would go to the carnival tomorrow.

The mother lifted a dark roquelaure delicately. Her fingers glided over the supple fabric. She walked over to the sign on the table and peered at the chalk though thin fashion glasses purchased from the last stall. Beautiful Italian script danced across her vision.

            “Amielia, darling, please read this to me,” the mother pointed to the small chalk board. Amielia’s eyes followed her long, stately fingers. Their gaze shifted as they jumped at the chance to devour new words:

            “These cloaks,” Amielia translated, “come directly from Milan. Each garment had its chance on the runway and earned high reviews from top fashion designers all over the world. One hundred Euros each.”

            The mother then turned to her most recent spawn.

            “Considering the current conversion rate,” she babbled, “the cloaks cost about one hundred eighty dollars each.”

            The mother nodded, replaced the cloak on the table, and turned to the next sign. Her hands brushed another commodity.

            “Amielia?” the mother waited for the next script to be read to her in English, but Amielia had disappeared.

            The carnival grounds this year were displayed around an ancient manor. It was dark, musty, and shabby, ready to fall to pieces. The mere mention of it would have been enough to draw Amielia in.

            She waltzed among the dust of the old place, breathing deeply as if it were an expensive perfume. The skeletons of trees lined her most exclusive passage.

            At the end was a door. This door was made of wood, intricately carved, and in need of years’ worth of oil. The faded and rough pictures of loyalty and extravagance awaited Amielia’s fingers longed to brush the outermost history of the great family that no longer lived. They were millimeters away when Amielia heard a crack.

            The step leading to the mansion door crumbled and the entire staircase followed, dragging Amielia along with it. The sound of the crash and the girl’s shrieks were drowned out by the merry noises of the carnival.

            Amielia sat up among the rubble, miraculously unscathed.  She brushed the niter from her dark clothing. The dust began to settle and Amielia observed her new surroundings with the aid of the sunlight from above ground.

            The empty eye sockets of the Montressor family stared back at Amielia. She jumped and ran into a wall. Heads rolled in fear of meeting a live person after so many years. They revealed a carved stone plague. The Latin words were preserved in solitude:

            ‘Hic iacet Leonardo caput Montressor. Obiit Idus Novembris anno MDCCCXCVI. In vitae suae tempus egit negotium et depinxerint Montressores iudicio. Superbia et ducere curavit Montressores omnes Italiae nomem Montressores cognovits. Qui habitabat in familia motto: Nemo me impune lacessit!’

            Amielia thought for a moment. The ides of November was in six days, the day she was due to leave for America again. Amielia looked around for something to use to get out of the catacombs. She climbed up a wall of graves and niter.

            Amielia’s family vacation passed through a haze of translations and conversions with her mother and bird-watching with her father. Each day brought a new section of the carnival and a new park with frozen lakes and icy rivers. Amielia was subjected to the deafening sounds of her sister spouting out prices of novelties and scientific facts about birds. All until her family was scheduled to visit a very fine restaurant on the last day; then, Amielia was nowhere to be found.

            Amielia retraced her steps through the majestic corridor. She arrived at he wonderful door and ran her fingers over the disappearing designs. She looked down. Near the hole, lying in the white dust was a crow’s head. Bloody tufts of feathers stained a bit of the dust. The crow’s eyes were open and the beak was slightly ajar.

            Amielia lowered herself down the hoe and hung from the sides before dropping the rest of the way. She had finally re-entered the catacombs.

            Reaching into her bag, she pulled out two cups that she had just bought at the carnival on her journey to here from the hotel. Amielia explored the catacombs for awhile before returning before Leonardo with a small, elegant bottle of Amontillado. She cracked the age old seal and poured an appropriate amount into each glass. Amielia set Leonardo’s glass in front of him and lifted her glass in his honor.

            Setting the glass against her lips, Amielia took a sip. She mulled it over and was about to take another sip when a creamy clear piece of niter fell into her drink. Rumbling sounds became evident from the surface followed by the sounds of a crowd. The manor was set for demolition today.

            Amielia’s heart raced. She remembered the amount of time it took for her to climb out of the catacombs the last time she had visited. The girl re-claimed her seat and finished her Amontillado. Deciding that it was good Sherry, Amielia looked to the sky above the hole in time to see the manor topple over with a great clamor. Mounds of dust filled the hole and the catacombs were buried as the manor was destroyed. The merry sounds of the carnival nearby drowned out Amielia’a screams.

            Just outside the range of the dust waves stood Amielia’s family. They could hear the destruction crew’s leader, Antonio Fortunato, announcing the fall of the manor. The crowd cheered.

            “I wonder where Amielia is,” her mother mused. “She is missing a great show.”

            ‘Hic iacet Amielia, filiae Montressores. Obiit Idus Noviembris anno MCMXCVI. In vitae spatium contendere periti linguae incessanter sequebantur. Illa omnium curiosa negaret erat mortem. Illa victus ignorantia negligantiaeque aliorum. Illa victus motto familia Montressore: Nemo me impune lacessit!’

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Hey people. That was a lit. project of mine and I just wanted to know what you think! My teacher gave me a 98, so feel free to grade me in your comments box. The project was to take one of the short stories that we read and write one based on it. I chose The Cask of Amontillado so please share what you think about it. Thanks!