El Tunel
(The Tunnel)
By Ernesto Sábato
“…at any rate, there is only a single
tunnel, isolated and dark, my own.”
I
It will be enough
to say I am Juan Pablo Castel, the painter who killed Maria Iribarne; I
assume that people will remember what I did, and that they do not need any further
explanation of my personal character.
Although not even the Devil knows what it is that people remember, or why they do.
In reality, I have always thought there is no collective memory, which may be a type of
defense for the human species. The expression, “all previous times were better,” does not
indicate that before fewer bad things happened, but that, fortunately, people tend to forget
about them. Of course, an expression like this is not always true; I, for example, am the
type of person who prefers to remember only bad things and, therefore, would almost be
able to say that “all previous times were worse,” if it wasn’t that for me the present seems
even more horrible than the past. I remember so many calamities, so many cynical faces,
and so many bad things that, for me, memory is like a frightening light that illuminates a
sordid museum of shame. How many times have I been upset for hours, after reading an
article in the police news! But the truth is that the most shameful part of the human race
does not always appear there; in some ways criminals are people who are more honest
and less offensive. And I don’t say this because I am a person who has killed someone; it
is an honest and profound conviction. So a person is pernicious? Well, destroy them,
and that’s the end of it. That’s what I call a good deed. Just think how much worse it
would be for society if that individual were to continue spreading his poison and, instead
of eliminating him, we would try to counteract his actions by hiding them, criticize them,
or other similar vile actions. As far as I am concerned, I must confess that I now regret
not having taken advantage of my chance to do away with five or six fellows that I know.
That the world is horrible doesn’t need any proof. Just one fact could prove it: a
concentration camp, a man who suffered from hunger and then they force him to eat a rat.
while it is still alive. But that is not what I want to talk about. If a there is a chance, I
will say something later about the matter of the rat.
II
As I said, my name is Juan Pablo Castel. One might wonder what it is that makes me
want to tell the story of my crime (I don’t know if I said I was going to talk about my
crime), and try to have it published. I know the human soul well enough to expect that
some would assume it was vanity. They can think what they want; I don’t give a damn;
for a long time now justice, or what people think, matters little to me. Let them imagine I
want to publish this story out of vanity. In the final analysis, I am a person of flesh and
blood, hair and nails, like anyone else, and I would feel that it is totally wrong for them to
expect me, especially me, to have some special qualities. A man sometimes feels he is
some sort of superman, until he realizes that he too is mean, dirty, and treacherous. And
I’m not speaking of vanity; I don’t think that anyone is devoid of this notable engine of
Human Progress. It makes me laugh to hear people talk about the modesty of Einstein, or
people like that. The reason: it is easy to be modest when you are a celebrity. I mean, to
appear modest. Even when one thinks that it doesn’t exist at all, one quickly discovers
its most subtle form: the vanity of modesty. How many times do we stumble into that
class of individuals! Even a man, real or symbolic, like Christ, spoke words suggested by
vanity, or at least by pride. And what about Leon Bloy who tried to defend himself from
the accusation of pride, insisting that he had spent his life helping people who didn’t even
come up to his knees? Vanity can be found in the most unexpected places; right next to
kindness, self-denial, and generosity. When I was a child and I despaired at the idea that
my mother would have to die someday (with time, one comes to realize death not only is
bearable, but also comforting), I never thought that my mother could have any defects.
Now that she is dead, I ought to say that she was as good as a human being is capable of
being. But I remember that in her final years, when I was a grown man, how it hurt me to
discover that, behind her best actions, there was a subtle feeling of vanity or pride.
Something even more demonstrative happened to me when they had to operate on her
because she had cancer. In order to get there in time, I had to travel for two days without
sleeping. When I arrived at the side of her bed, her dying face was able to smile at me
with tenderness for a moment, saying a few words to take pity on me. (She took pity on
my tiredness!) Inside me I felt, obscurely, the vain feeling of pride for having arrived so
quickly. I confess this secret to show that I do not consider myself better than others.
Nevertheless, I am not relating this story out of vanity. Perhaps I would admit there is
a bit of pride, or stubbornness. But why this mania of trying to find an explanation for
everything we do? When I started to write this story, I was strongly determined not to
give an explication of any kind. I wanted to tell the story of my crime, and that’s all.
Anyone who is not satisfied with that doesn’t have to read it. Though I don’t expect that,
because it is precisely the type of people who want explanations that are the most curious,
and I think none of them would want to miss the opportunity to read this story of a crime
from beginning to end.
I could keep to myself the things that made me want to write these pages of confession.
But since I have no interest in appearing eccentric, I will tell the truth, that all my reasons
are quite simple: I thought that they would be read by many different people, now that I
am well-known. And although I don’t have any illusions about humanity in general, or
about the readers of these pages in particular, I am encouraged by the weak hope that
perhaps someone might be able to understand me.
EVEN IF IS IS A SINGLE PERSON.
“Why—someone might ask—such a weak hope if the story will be read by so many
different people?” It is this type of questions that I consider useless. Nevertheless, you
have to expect them, because people are constantly asking useless questions, questions
where even the most superficial analysis would show that they were unnecessary. I could
speak as long as I felt like it in front of a crowd of a hundred thousand Russians, and no
one would understand me. Do you realize what I mean?
There was only one person who could understand me.
But that was precisely the person I killed.