Jose Somoza: Art of Murder

They had time before they had to go to the airport. Did she want to say goodbye to anywhere in particular? he wanted to know. Clara looked at the newspapers crumpled on her bed. She had read that this Friday 21 July, 2006, they would finish dismantling the Tunnel.

'I'd like to go to the Museumplein to see how they're demolishing the Tunnel,' she said. 'No problem.'

Night had fallen, and stars were beginning to appear above the quiet waters of the canals. It was a splendid summer night. The moon shone brightly, trying to reach its own perfection. Gerardo drove with Clara towards the Museumplein.

‘I was thinking,' said Gerardo, breaking the intense silence, 'that I might travel to Madrid soon. I'd like to finish a painting I've left half completed,' he added with a smile.

Later on, she came to think of this as the exact moment when she realised Susanna had left her body completely. There in the dark seat of Gerardo's car, she touched her legs, her arms, her face, and was sure of it. Susanna had been rubbed out. From underneath, for good or ill, had emerged Clara Reyes. The event – she thought – had something of a frustrated attempt at divorce about it. Gerardo was talking to her. 'I'd like…'

He was making a series of sincere confessions which she could scarcely hear. But she understood that now she was Clara once more, she would have to get used to hearing sincere confessions again. Because Susanna was drifting off into the starry night sky. Susanna was floating through the immense tunnel of night, further and further away, increasingly indifferent. Welcome to the world, Clara. Welcome to reality.

The work in the Museumplein was being carried out calmly and skilfully. Several workmen undid each curtain panel: first one wall, then the other, finally the roof. They were advancing along the whole length of the horseshoe. They were not even stopping for the night: Amsterdam had to greet the new day without the Tunnel, dawn had to rise over the naked square, dotted with its usual statues and gardens.

Gerardo parked nearby, and they walked along looking upwards, like freshly arrived tourists.

'What do you feel?' he asked her. She was staring at the huge dismantling effort. 'I don't know. Hold me tight.' As they renewed their walk, she thought of a reply. 'It's as if I'm breathing for the first time,' she said. They walked on. Clara looked back over her shoulder.

At that moment they were undoing one of the roof panels. The immense square fell with the sound of distant waves, dragging its darkness with it. The clear moonlight effortlessly glided into the empty shade.