Nota preliminar: Pido disculpas anticipadas por el lenguaje del cuento. Ocurre que mi novia no habla espaniol, y me pidio que escriba el cuento en un idioma que pueda entender. Es la primera vez que escirbo un cuento en un idioma que no sea espaniol, y quede tan contento con el resultado de mi aventura linguistica que no puedo resistir el incluirlo en la pagina.
Gracias por la comprension!


...a E.A.P.

Fernandino Renato “Fortunato” Alberti was up waking from his drunkenness to a dark and humid place that he couldn’t identify.
At first he thought he was in one of the countless alleys that spin off London’s intricate streets. The humidity and coldness suggested that might be the case, but somehow he also know he was in a closed place, maybe even underground, and of course there was not such a thing as a covered alley.
He had an incomplete idea of the series of events that lead him to that humid and poorly illuminated place, and tried to reconstruct them. He opened and closed his eyes, and for the millionth time his mind automatically re-played the movie of the woman with white skin and excessively revealing escort laughing while small bells rang as background music. He had been remembering that scene for hours now, and after some concentration amid an acute headache, he now remembered where he had seen that woman and he fainted a smile.
It had been a really good party, one of the best of the season. She had been –as most ladies there-, happy to meet him, and he was in turn pleased to flirt with her while throwing so not-so-discrete peeps at her escort. He now remembered that it was while he was making the woman laugh when he drank the no-turn-back wine cup, that extra cup of alcohol well known by all drinkers after which consciousness evaporates and the body just goes on its own with few or no recollection of subsequent events.
Not that he minded: He had had a great drinking night: the host –one of his long-term business partners- had gotten sure that his guests would have the finest wine selection that an affluent London businessman could afford, a gesture that Fortunato always appreciated. He had lost count of the number of wine cups that had circulated through his mouth, but he retained the name, taste and aroma of the few new vintages he hadn’t known beforehand.
He proud himself in being a wine expert, and he had always taken care of embellishing his reputation by comparing the unknown vintages he encountered with more known vintages in metrics like aroma, color, taste and consistency. This librarian knowledge earned the admiration of ladies and the respect of men, as well as a sure invitation to the next event where good or exotic wine would be present. Indeed, it was an everybody-wins situation.
Yes, it had been a good party, but now as he lay in that poorly lighted place, still hearing those irritating bells jiggling almost inside his ears, he tried to make sense of what had happened. He moaned on the ever-present humidity that seemed to get into his very bones. His severe cold didn’t help his breathing, and with the occasional smell of sulphur, his cough was getting stronger.
His head fell and he heard the bells again.
He now realized that he was still wearing the buffoon costume he had worn at the party, even the ridiculous hat, and he identified the jingling bells as coming from the extreme of the claw-shaped. Although the bells were now painfully resonating inside his head, he didn’t go to the trouble of taking the hat off: too much energy, too little payoff.
Instead, he kept on trying to understand where he was and what was going on.
His next remembrance after the laughing lady and the wine parade at the party was himself stumbling through the slippery 18th century London streets, at some undetermined hour of the late night or early morning. Clearly, the party had come to an end and he had somehow failed to find or get into his car for the way back.
Still far away from his home, he remembered regretting not having taken one or two extra drinks to keep him warm in the walk back. Of course he had drunk as much wine as he could stand, but nevertheless he had begun to think of all the bottles that remained, still half-filled, at his host’s house. Ah, if only he had taken one of them with him…he remembered thinking that even a cup of the infamous Giol would have tasted like heaven in those solitary and foggy streets. Even now, in the strange cavern where he was laying, the thought of a cup of sweet wine made him unconsciously drool.
It was while he was wondering in the streets and thinking of those half-filled bottles when he had heard a not unfamiliar voice calling his first name. It took him some time to recognize the man that seemed so exaggeratedly happy to greet him, although at the beginning he couldn’t recall his name. Due to his power and wealth, many people knew and respected (some would say feared) him, but of course he couldn’t know or remember them all.
He could only identify the man as a tangential business partner in a less than attractive deal. The man had repeatedly tried to commit Forunato into a deal in the continent, for which Fortunato was supposed to put cash while he would provide his family name reputation.
After some diligences, Fortunato had found out that this so-called family reputation was everything but alive. The man’s family had indeed been large and respected a long time ago. But now it had fallen in disgrace, and the only remains of the previous wealth were a couple of houses and an undisclosed amount of money that the only heir seemed to be in a hurry to burn. He then proceeded to reject the deal, politely at first, a bit more harshly upon the man’s insistence.
Fortunato found the man slightly annoying, but he respected his attitude: even after receiving a strong rejection that would have no doubt offended many of the so-called high class gentlemen, this men accepted the setback with an absolute gentleman’s demeanor. He clearly understood that businesses are not personal, and politely stepped back. Now, from time to time he would contact Fortunato on social issues, always with a sincere smile in his face.
Drunk and wandering through the nameless London streets, Forunato had been immediately pleased to see a friendly face that may help him get to his home. He had long realized that he was too drunk to keep on walking alone, and it would take him at least a couple of hours to reach his house. His coughing was increasingly frequent and strong, and he was about to casually ask the young man to guide his way when he said something so unbelievable that at first Fortunato couldn’t believe his ears: the man was inviting him to go to his place to taste some new, exquisite wine he had received, and on which he wanted his opinion.
Suddenly, Fortunato forgot his cold and exhaustion, and felt energetic. He didn’t need to go back home right away, after all. He was not too old for another glass of wine or two, even at that late hour, and it would be good to close the night with a tasting of the delicious new vintage.
Revitalized, Fortunato insisted in going right away to the gentleman’s house, but his host, concerned about Fortunato’s state, politely tried to talk him into forgetting the whole issue. But it was too late: Fortunato could only think of the delicate touch of the wine flooding his mouth, the sweet smell filling his nostrils, the glorious stream going down his throat… He was a man used to getting what he wanted, and at that moment he knew he wanted to taste that wine, and he would.

Lying in the cold dark place, his head slowly spinning down, Fortunato was now struggling to keep his head up. With every move, the bells on his hat, amplified by the alcohol, had moved from being merely annoying to painfully irritating. In a violent move that seemed to increase the intensity of the jiggling, Fortunato got rid of his hat.

His memory of what happened after he managed to convince the man-whose-name-he didn’t remember to go to his house (hell, he had almost forced him!) were now isolated islands, mere strips without a clear logical connection. The only thing he remembered was the ubiquitous thought of the sweet wine awaiting them, and the constant complaints of his host about Fortunato’s health.
His next image was from walking in a poorly illuminated place, still amid concerned protests from his new host. He remembered he had been holding a glass of wine, and for a moment he thought he might still have it. He closed his hand in a blind attempt to grab the imaginary wine glass, but the only result was a new bells jiggling.
He could hear the bells, and yet he was almost sure he had taken away his hat only one moment ago. He tried to take it away again, and as soon as he moved the bells jingled again.
Suddenly, he realized that the jingling wasn’t coming from his hat, but from his right hand wrist. He also noticed a pressure in his wrist, close to where the jiggling had come from, and in the twilight he managed to get a glance of what was it. When he finally figured out what was it, a sudden stroke of fear hit his body. His stomach contracted and his brain triggered a release of adrenaline that quickly dissipated all traces of alcohol.
With horror, he realized that the pressure in his right wrist was because he was wearing handcuffs, and the ringing bells were actually the chain that attached him to the wall. With horror, he tried to move his left hand, only to realize that it was also chained.
It now was clear what was going on: he was chained in some humid and dark catacomb, and although he initially tried to control his fear, he soon lost control of his body to panic and begun to battle furiously against the chains.
He only managed to get even exhausted.
Momentarily able to control the panic that now seemed to occupy his whole body, he sat down and tried to calm down. He repeated himself that that was not going on, that it was a dream and if he concentrated hard enough he would wake up in his soft bed.
But the rocks were too cold and humid to let him concentrate.
And yet, now that he was free from the effect of alcohol, he realized there was something else in the room. He could hear a scratching sound accompanied by pants as if somebody were dragging a heavy weight over a stone floor. He also realized there was a trembling and faint light coming from somewhere in front of him. The agitation of the lights and shadows meant that something or someone was close.
Fortunato felt a thrill of fear.
If someone was around, why wasn’t he or she helping him? He had been fighting with his chains for several minutes, and it was not possible that this struggle had been unnoticed by whomever was around. Who was that person or thing, and what was it doing?
He was tense, his hands unconsciously hanging his knees with all his strength, and trying not to make the minimum sound, as if in that way the thing doing the scratching sound would leave.
And suddenly, the sound ceased. For a second, Fortunato increased the tension on his knees even more, to the point of almost cutting his trousers with his nails. And suddenly, a light got into the cavern allowing Fortunato to see the reduced geometry of the catacomb he was in.
That was too much for Fortunato, who again jumped to fight even more recklessly against his chains, this time screaming in an uncontrollable rage. In his dementia, he could hear his own voice echoed and amplified in a dull and bizarre way, which only got him more scared and fight even stronger.
The echo was so strong that he stopped for some instants, and to his horror the echo still went on but this time with the voice of his fellow host, the young gentleman who so kindly had offered him to taste the exquisite wine. He tried to reassure himself that he had to be living a nightmare. To be hearing the terrifying laughter of his host could only have one other explanation, but he didn’t even want to think of it. It HAD to be a nightmare, but the stones under him were so cold and humid…! BUT IT HAD TO BE A NIGHTMARE!!!!
Fortunato didn’t realize that he was now fighting again, and the echo with the second voice just seemed to enhance the more he fought.
Finally, after a period of time that Fortunato couldn’t precise or even approximate, his strength abandoned him as fast as it had came to him, and he half fainted into the wall on his back. He slid down, still terrified but too exhausted to manifest it physically.
He was trying now desperately to control himself, to think what had happened and most importantly, what was going on now.
Without the blurriness of alcohol, he could now clearly remember better how his host had taken him into a morbid cavern under his house while drinking wine and conducting a friendly chat. He could remember how his host had insisted in getting out of there fast, that the wine tasting was not as important as his health…
Fortunato was now cautiously beginning to relax: if the young man was obviously so concerned about his health that there had to be another explanation for what was going on. Yes, it had to be some kind of perverse joke.
This idea relaxed him even further.
Yes, it had to be a joke, the alternative was too horrible. It was a joke, indeed, except that a voice in his head was telling him that no one would make a joke like this. But there was no other feasible explanation.
Fortunato started to laugh, softly at the beginning, strongly as he realized the sound of laugh reassured him that it had to be a joke. When he felt that his own laugh had reassured him enough, he said
“Ha ha ha –he he he – a very good joke, indeed – an excellent jest. We shall have many rich laugh about it at the palazzo – he he he – over our wine – he he he.
“The Amontillado”! his host’s voice answered
“He he he – yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting for us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone”
“Yes” somehow, in the almost complete darkness, Fortunato knew that the man was smiling while he said this final words “let us be gone”
The terror of knowing that the host was smiling, that this was really happening, that it was not a joke, stroke Fortunato like never before. A scream that was part cry and part pure terror came out of him as he suddenly realized what was going on and coincidentally the name of his host and twig.
“For the love of God, Montresor!”
“Yes!” again the invisible smile “for the love of God!”
But Fortunato had fainted again and couldn’t hear these words. He woke up only fifteen minutes later, and for some seconds he didn’t know where he was.



NOTA FINAL: Al que se haya quedado con un sentimiento de "deja vu" o al que no haya entendido el final, le ruego leer "El casco de Amontillado", de Edgar Allan Poe. Es un cuento corto, pero en mi humilde opinion, uno de los mejores de este autor.