The Cask Of Almondtadillo

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. Indeed, at length, and with nutty flavour, I would be avenged. I would not only punish but punish with sweet delight, a delight drawn close to oblivion. I must not let this wrong become unredressed, as if it were a delicious almond placed in plain view, never to be claimed, crushed, devoured.

Understand that by neither word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good taste in appetizers or snacks. He had a weak point, this Fortunato. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in almonds. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit, but in the matter of almonds, Fortunato was sincere.

The sky was the color of hazelnut, one evening during the supreme madness of the season when almonds are at the apex of ripeness and power. He accosted me with the warmth of the almond tree under the blazing Tuscan sun; he had been indulging in almonds far beyond his own limits. In fact, having observed the man from afar for the whole evening prior, I was pleased to see him thoughtlessly devour one-hundred thirty-seven almonds while the moon had yet to set in place, like a gleaming cashew in the sky.

I said to him— “My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. I have received a handful of what passes for Sonora, and I have my doubts.”

“How?” said he. “Sonora? Impossible! And in the middle of almond season, no less!”

“I have my doubts.”

“Sonara!”

“And I must satisfy them—or perhaps satisfy my stomach, or my heart. I am on my way to Luchesi. Some fools have it his taste for Mamra and Marcona may surpass your own—”

“Luchesi could not tell Sonora from mere California!”

I watched his hand closely as he spoke. He was perhaps too flush with almond, or preoccupied with eating, to pay me any mind. If he noticed me staring, he did not say. Each new almond, slipping through his lips, I counted. One, two… then seventy-eight. It was as if he was being guided by fate to slip onto my sword.

“Come, let us go,” he muttered through yet more mouthfuls of almonds. One-hundred and nine more, I took care to note.

“Whither?”

“To your vaults. I have no engagement.”

“My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe influence of the almonds with which I perceive you are afflicted,” I said with scarcely restrained glee.

“Let us go, nevertheless. These almonds are nothing. Sonora! You have been imposed upon…”

Thus speaking, Fortunato clenched my arm like he was digging his claws into a bowl of assorted nuts. I suffered him to hurry me to my almazzo, feeding him almonds along the way, counting seventy-three.

Once home, I took from my attendants’ quarters two chalices, filling each with exactly one-hundred eighty-three Ferragnes almonds apiece, and passing one to Fortunato, guided him through several suites of rooms and arched staircases, down a winding staircase into the vaults.

The gait of my friend was uneasy. I chanced a look at his chalice and saw that it was wholly empty upon our arrival in the damp Montresor catacombs. I passed him my own chalice, which he accepted without a conscious thought.

“The Sonara,” said he.

“It is farther on,” said I. “How long have you had that cough?”

“Ugh! ugh! ugh! —”

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for several minutes. I feared he was choking on his almonds. That fate would be too good for him; too painless.

“It is nothing,” he said, at last, slipping twenty-three almonds into his mouth for comfort.

“Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious; the world has far more almonds left for you to revel in. You are a man to be missed. Besides, there is Luchesi—”

“Enough,” he said, “the cough is a mere chestnut; it shall not kill me.”

“True, true,” I replied, “but like almonds in their shell, you should use all proper caution. A handful of Monterey will defend you from the damp.”

I knocked the lid off a box and poured more almonds into his hands. Exactly three-hundred twenty-two, I watched, reverently, as they dropped into his stomach like ripe Tuono off the almond tree.

He stumbled to his feet. "Let us proceed to the Sonara."

The most remote end of the crypt was lined with spoiled almonds, piled overhead and around, as if we were at the foot of a sickly almond tree. Three sides of the crypt were ornated in this manner, with the fourth being adorned with a single Sonara almond.

"Sonara!" Fortunato proclaimed.

"Yes, herein is the Sonara. As for Luchesi—"

"He is peanut-brained," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, clumsily grasping the almond. With eyes like Molar, he brought it to his nose, then threw it into his throat.

The effect, as anticipated, was instantaneous. He fell to the ground, astounded. I took to busying myself among the mass of almond and rot. I uncovered a quantity of large, brick-style almonds and mortar. I began to vigorously wall up the entrance of the cavern.

I heard a low and moaning cry, muffled by a mouthful of almonds. I hearkened to it with satisfaction, and even dared enjoy the sound with a delicious almond snack.

"The Sonara..."

Then a succession of loud and shrill screams burst forth, shocking me.

"For the love of almonds, Montresor!"

Then a long and desperate silence. My heart grew sick as I knew his choral agony had ceased.

For I knew that his single Sonara was, in fact, his one thousand and eighty-sixth almond of the night—an amount which would ensure a lethal dose of cyanide would coagulate in poor Fortunato.

The Montresor vaults are rich in almonds and blood. For half a century no mortal has disturbed either bounty.

In almond requiescat!