(Based upon the short story The Cask of Amontillado)
by Edgar Allan Poe (1846) and Kyrel Zantonavitch (2015, 2019)
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Peikoff cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and my boss did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.
His latest injury, though deeply familiar, was simply too much for me to bear. It was time for payback.
All my adult life I had hated Nathaniel Branden and David Kelley. Their very names were, to me, odious almost beyond compare. And yet – they had their virtues. Both professionally and personally. Occasionally, oh just once in a while, I forebear to utter this.
This, however, caused Peikoff to attack me utterly on that day. His last insults were the worst ever, and simply beyond the pale. What injustice! What malice and untruth! And yet, if I persisted with my opinions, no matter how well-reasoned or softly mentioned, he threatened to destroy me entirely, both as writer, and man. He would excommunicate me as an Objectivist, and censor all my many writings at the Ayn Rand Institute. As so many before me, I would be quite ruined. The situation was insufferable.
But he had a weak point – this Peikoff – though in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his ability to intimidate – to silence all critics and censor all intellectual opponents. He thought his evil would dominate forever. He feared no truth-telling or virtue-loving enemy.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the Halloween season, that I encountered my friend. I met him at the august ARI and he accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him –“My dear Peikoff, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I have received strange and important news. Are you alone here?”
“Quite. What is your news?”
“A friend informs me he just received some papers stolen from Ayn Rand. He won’t say when or where. But he wants someone to examine them. Someone to authenticate or repudiate them.”
Peikoff looked at me with alarm.
“What is in these supposed papers of yours?”
I stared at him provocatively.
“Perhaps I should fall silent – as so often you’ve suggested to me in the past. I don’t think you want to know what…”
“Tell me!”
Peikoff put on a brave front. But his sense of dread was palpable. His moist lips quivered, as his perspiration dripped.
“Well…my friend says these new papers principally contain three things. First, erotic fiction to rival that of de Sade. Next, an apology to Branden, to be published upon Rand’s death. Finally, an evaluation of…yourself.”
After this third item Peikoff looked like death itself. I gazed upon him directly, in feigned sympathy.
“It seems to have been written by Rand, for her own edification, if not amusement. Something never meant to be published.”
I hesitated, in pure enjoyment.
“This last evidently portrays you as a mediocrity, both professionally and personally.”
Peikoff blanched terribly. His worst fears seem to have been confirmed.
“Nonsense!” he shrieked, sounding overmuch like a little girl. “Such papers don’t exist! Long ago I destroyed all such…”
He paused in embarrassment. “What I mean is: we need to make an end to this rubbish at once!”
“But what about All Hallows' Eve? You’re completely dressed up. Perhaps I should instead go see Schwartz or Binswanger…”
“No!” he exploded. Beads of sweat formed on his twisted, upper lip; Peikoff’s wizened, pasty face looked palpably sick. “Those two know nothing of our goddess. I shall verify forthwith. Let us take my car.” He moved to go, his body shaking noticeably.
“But what of tonight’s celebration? Surely you are in no condition to go out. Especially not to drive. Let me consult Peter or Harry about…”
Again he exploded in fury. “They are enemies of our sacred prophet! And I hate them besides! I want nothing to do with them in a matter as important as this. Now let us leave, my loyal disciple.”
We immediately decamped for my farmhouse in the California mountains, where my friend and his remarkable papers supposedly reposed. Peikoff drove.
“Should you really be at the wheel? I mean…in your drunken state you might kill someone!”
“To hell with that! They’d be lucky to so die. I’m Leonard Peikoff – the intellectual heir of Rand and the real life Pope of Objectivism!” His pomposity was familiar and undiminished.
We drove on – myself in fear, and ready to take the wheel at a moment’s notice. After all of my luxurious anticipation, I wasn’t about to be thwarted by his antisocial cavalierity.
I finally persuaded my Pontiff friend to stop for coffee. Thence my well-planned escapade truly commenced. I inserted copious amounts of Flunitrazepam, sometimes known as Rohypnol, into his drink. Within five minutes, and before setting off again, he was fast asleep. I took his place, and drove on to the abandoned farm house. We arrived in under two hours.
Although it took much effort, I finally woke him. We went in, led by my flashlight. Peikoff hardly noted what was happening. We descended to the basement, a kind of dreary tomb-like place.
He roused himself slightly. “Your friend and the secret papers are here?” he said with some doubt.
“It is so,” I reassured him. He looked at me with a kind of premonition.
“I’m not sure about this…”
“But Lenny – you never have any doubts about anything. Everyone at ARI has complete faith in you and your holy authority.”
“And so they should!” he said, his spirits roused.
I offered him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route and descent, in search of the secret Rand papers. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flashlight rather to glower than shine.
At the most remote end of the dungeon there appeared another chamber less spacious. Its walls had been lined with thick stones, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris.
Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the rocks had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the stones, we perceived a still more interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Peikoff, looking about, endeavored to visually pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
“Proceed,” I said; “therein are the papers. As for Schwartz and Binswanger –”
“They are ignoramuses,” interrupted my editor and mentor, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rocks, stood stupidly bewildered. I reached for some pre-positioned restraints. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling the strength of the masonry. Indeed, it is well-constructed. But once again let me implore you to allow me to consult the others. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power.”
“Rand’s papers!” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
“Yes,” I replied; “Rand’s fictional papers.”
He gaped at me with a kind of numb horror. I mentally repaired to my well-practiced speech. But gazing upon this pitiful sight, this uber-unimpressive figure, I suddenly lost all interest in delivering it.
Instead, I quietly murmured: “You remember all the times you threatened to excommunicate me? To ruin my life? The way you did so many others who dared to tell a bit of truth about Rand and Objectivism.”
He looked at me in mute terror. Most of the drug seemed to have worn off.
“Surely you recall. How often you said I was an enemy of the sacred Ayn Rand, and a traitor to the holy philosophy of Objectivism. You claimed it of many of us. Well, I never was. As for you…”
“What are you talking about? What is the meaning of all this? What in hell are you doing?” His voice was high and he shook his restraints violently.
I looked at his curiously and paused to think a bit.
“You actually thought those three papers I invented were real? You must know something the rest of us don’t. You must be covering up one hell of a lot.”
Peikoff looked away evasively.
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of stones of which I have before spoken. Throwing a burlap tarp aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar, previously stored. With these materials and with the aid of a trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Peikoff had entirely worn off. His awareness of the situation was now complete. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drugged man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the stones. I looked at him ironically.
“You are the Pope of Objectivism. You propagandize Objectivism as a religion.” My mockery was complete.
Peikoff disdained to reply. I smiled sweetly, as the official Fuhrer of the philosophy continued to struggle a bit. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flashlight over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated – I trembled. Unsheathing my flashlight, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed – I aided – I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Peikoff. The voice said–
“Ha! ha! ha! – he! he! – a very good joke, indeed – an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at ARI – he! he! he! – over our wine – he! he! he!”
“The secret papers!” I said.
“He! he! he! – he! he! he! – yes, the secret papers. But is it not getting late? Will not our families be awaiting us at the Halloween parties, the true and loyal Objectivists, and all of the rest? Let us be gone.”
“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”
“For the love of Galt, my disciple!”
“Yes,” I said, “for the love of Galt!”
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud –
“Peikoff!”
No answer. I called again –
“Peikoff!”
No answer still. I thrust the flashlight through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of stones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In agonus resti!
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