Masterfully Done

Author’s or Narrator’s Prologue:

Dear Readers,

As you read this story, I beg you not to think, not even for a second, that I am copying Edgar Allan Poe’s 1846 story. Not for a moment, not for all the tea in China, would I do that. Not for any price anybody would be willing to pay.

You may not have recalled that 1846 was the year the great writer from Boston or Philadelphia published his masterpiece, “The Cask of Amontillado.” Obviously I wasn’t around then, but I did read it many years later, well over a century later. I read it with passion, just like I’ve read and reread every last line E.A. Poe wrote, prose or verse. At the time I read “The Cask of Amontillado” I was about fifteen. It was a secret pleasure, because such sentiments weren’t considered appropriate in a good Protestant home like mine.

All this means I’m trying to be upfront with you, my readers. I loved Edgar, love him still, and would never want to hurt him. Plagiarism would be such a low blow. It goes against my principles.

However, Mr. Poe dealt me a low blow when he wrote that story in 1846 because I’ve never been able to forget his masterful plot and wish I’d thought of it myself. By saying this, I’m admitting my admiration, but also trying to show him up, show him I can write revenge just as well as he can. Could. Maybe I do it even better.

You can talk or write among yourselves and decide if I’m a good rival to Poe. Whose plot is superior? Remember, though, that while I did not know how to pronounce Amontillado the first time I read his story, and I don’t know if Mr. E. Author Poe did back in 1846, I do know now. It’s: A - mone - tee - yah - do.

That ought to count for something.

And no, I’m not going to provide you with a plot summary. If you don’t know the story, stop here and go read it. Otherwise, you probably won’t understand a thing.

Signed,

The Author

The Story:

I’ve never been anything but a good - some would say faithful - friend, as well as an expert in fine food and drink. When there are festivities going on like during the Solstices, I have always felt motivated - compelled - to indulge in the pleasure my skills bring me and even invite a few of my closest acquaintances to partake with me.

One such acquaintance was Aurora Leigh, who if truth be told, was often less than sincere with me. She had managed to hurt me more than once, although I swear I had never responded to her words or actions, of course, because we were friends. Still, I had shed many tears as a result of her cruelty, which I sustain I did not deserve.

Aurora was always drawn to art and considered herself to be a decent artist, which I’m not prepared to deny, but the hook I had - if you can call it that - was her inability to stay away from museums and art galleries. I simply offered her a tour through my gallery, which I’d installed in a sizeable old New England factory made of brick inside and out. You know the kind I mean.

I informed Aurora that I’d been to Europe, visiting numerous art dealers, and had brought back a considerable number of valuable pieces. When I mentioned some of the names of the artists, silly Aurora nearly swooned. She asked me if she could please visit my gallery.

Exactly according to plan. She invited herself, you see. After all, in addition to being a connoisseur of fine food and drink, I was an art connoisseur, well-trained in the field, and my friend was aware of that. Aurora, as an artist, probably thought she knew as much as I do about the field. I considered that a bit arrogant of her.

When she appeared that evening she was carrying a huge bottle of inferior champagne, no, fizzy, sugary wine, along with some olives imported from who knows what country. I hid my displeasure with a disarming smile and invited her in.

Naturally, I attempted to delay the tour, suggesting we eat and drink first in honor of my recent acquisitions, in honor of art in general. I suspected that would heighten the anticipation, and was right. I even contributed a couple of items of my own: the finest prosciutto and a sublime goat cheese from near the coast of Maine or Vermont. (I think a comma needs to go after Maine.) Needless to say, I also retrieved a bottle of my best champagne, which I skillfully placed off to my right so she would have to drink her own bubbly soft drink, as I thought of it.

Aurora was discussing art dealers in the city where we lived, complaining about how bad they were. Not only did they not offer good art to customers; none of them had seen fit to buy any of her pieces in recent months. I declined to comment on the second part, but agreed with the first - that the city’s art merchants needed to step up their game.

I knew, because none of them shared my own expertise. I had been trained by the best.

Now my friend was insisting we start on the promised tour, and I had to yield to her wishes. She was practically drooling as I described the sections of my enormous gallery and explained how all the necessary precautions had been taken to protect the pieces from potentially damaging sunlight, humidity, or any pollution whatsoever. She understood immediately, perfectly, and she knew we had to proceed with the utmost care.

When I suggested we might have to hurry because it was getting late, dear Aurora smiled and said, “It’s never too late for art.” I grinned at her.

We walked deliberately, almost stalking the art hung in mostly darkened rooms, clinging to one another at times for some reason. We were alone, all alone, since there was some parade and a lot of celebration taking place in the city center. I carried a special lantern whose illumination would do no damage. To be honest, most of the pieces would not have suffered from the usual artificial lighting, but my cautionary gestures helped heighten the experience for Aurora the so-called artist.

It was the least I could do, I thought. 

At some point, my companion began to rub her eyes, as if something were causing irritation. I suggested she might want to put off the tour until she could have her vision checked. After all, I pointed out, she wouldn’t be able to paint or sculpt or print - whatever it was she did I didn’t know for sure - if she ruined her eyesight.

Aurora refused to go back, and almost pulled along with her, her hand clamped on my sleeve. She begged me to take her to the most prized acquisitions I had brought back, which she knew were by three masters: Braque, Gris, and Miró (the latter piece completely unknown until I’d discovered it in a tiny shop). I observed that I hadn’t found any Sonia Delaunay works, but was hoping to, on my next trip. I told her it was important to me to ensure the presence of women artists in the public’s mind. Aurora agreed, of course, and hooked her arm through mine in sisterly fashion.

The lighting grew dimmer as we continued along the lengthy passageways that so many old New England factories have. I could say this was all planned, but I won’t. 

It was a bit eerie, but as we proceeded, the walls seemed more crumbling, as if the bricks were of less quality there. We encountered dry leaves that must have blown in through a window that should never have been opened. There were also, of course, countless cobwebs. Even I began to feel a little anxious. It all seemed so ominous.

Things were working so well.

Aurora was by now rubbing her eyes a lot, trying to conceal what her hands were doing near her face. She was worried, she said, that she hadn’t brought her glasses. I hadn’t known she needed glasses. I told her not to worry, though.

Finally we reached a door that I knew I could only move by leaning my right shoulder into it and pushing hard. By now the only light we had came from my lantern and I feared the charge might not last, but Aurora was unconcerned. She had glimpsed a painting on the back wall of the final passageway and was inching toward it. Groping.

Things were really going splendidly.

And finally the tour was over, had to be over. My companion had disappeared. Obviously she had not spotted the 3’ by 3’ gap in the flooring that had remained after the remodeling of that wing. The workers hadn’t returned to finish up yet. Maybe they never would.

I didn’t actually hear Aurora fall, but I know where she landed. The factory was built on solid, jagged rock ledge overlooking the rugged river. It wasn’t a sight I was willing to subject myself to. I carefully sought the way out of the passageway, leaving nothing behind. There weren’t even any footprints, since the floors were swept and mopped daily. Except for the 3’ by 3’ portion that was unfinished.

I don’t know if she screamed my name as she fell. My conscience did make me cry out her name - Auroooraaa - from a safe distance, next to the sticky door. There was no answer, but I hadn’t really expected one.

On leaving, I extracted the key to the door from my pocket. It was the key I hadn’t used when Aurora and I had entered. Because I’d known the door was unlocked, if a bit sticky. I used the key to turn the heavy mechanism in the old lock, then tossed it out the window of my car as I drove home on I-295.

One less friend to worry about. In pace requiescat, as Edgar would say. In pace requiescat, Mr. Poe.

[Signed in cursive by the Author: E. Alexis Ponder]